


Crystal Method

by pocketsfullofmice



Series: Harringdrape [1]
Category: Mad Men, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Anal Sex, Bi!Steve, F/M, Kinda depressing, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Whump, and by kinda i mean it really is, college aged!steve, crackship, don the dick daddy draper, just gonna leave that at the end there, season 2-divergent, steve and joan are related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsfullofmice/pseuds/pocketsfullofmice
Summary: Summer of 1965.Don gets a new secretary from Indiana and a doozy of a government account.





	Crystal Method

**Author's Note:**

> So this was meant to be nothing but an honest to God smutty crackship. Then I sat at work and thought _what if I made it hilariously depressing?_ and that thought wouldn't quit. So my apologies in advance.
> 
> I decided to set this in the Mad Men 'verse, as any time I pictured Don in the 80s, he turned into Patrick Bateman. While Stranger Things is very 80s, Mad Men is locked to the 60s, and it was easier to shift Steve and the entire 'verse there. 
> 
> Thanks in advance for all, like, three of you who'll read this. You're the real suckers here. Robby, Tea and Jess, y'all gonna be in my will and get to divvy up my Fallout collectibles amongst yourselves.

The kid had to be sixteen. Rationally, Don knew that wasn't the case. They had a minimum hiring age. For one, it kept kids fresh out of high school and with no concept of commitment from wasting their time. And two, it stopped any overprotective parents from suing them due to wandering eyes and wandering hands. The kid was Joan's sister's son, or some convoluted, tenuous connection like that. Ultimately, the summer job was a favour, and given Don had gone through three secretaries in as three months (and for once he'd had nothing to do with any of them leaving, given the two pregnancies and the third girl's father dying), the kid was dumped on his desk. 

Roger said it was favour; Don tried not to imagine who the favour was for exactly. Pete called it equal opportunity. They already hired married and pregnant women, and they were in the early stages of talking about hiring African-American secretaries. It made sense they'd have a male secretary first. All through the introductions, Don just grit his teeth and inhaled sharply as the kid fervently shook his hand. His name was Steve, he was in college ( _doing what, extra credit for school?_ Don wondered, barely managing to hold his tongue), and his hair was ridiculous. It was unprofessional, sticking up at the back and sides, despite the level of pomade that had been slathered through it. 

'I give him two weeks,' he stated, when chased into his office by Roger.

'You've got him until the end of August.'

Pivoting on the ball of his foot, a cigarette already being raised to his lips, Don gave Roger a stare. A part of him still believed the summer job line was just an off-colour joke, but that was looking to be increasingly unlikely. Eyeing the door, still hoping to see Dorothy Collins and the team behind _Candid Camera_ to come bursting in, he shook his head.

'He's already flirting with the girls. He's been here two hours.'

'How's that any different to you?'

'I don't get paid a buck forty an hour,' Don snapped, finally striking a match and lighting the end of his cigarette.

Due to a sense of confusion and unease, Don avoided the kid (because he couldn't bring himself to think of him as _Steve_ ) who sat at his secretary's desk for the better part of the morning. There were a couple of moments, when he carefully timed his departure from his office to make himself a coffee or hit the john when his newest secretary had stepped away from the desk to attend to miscellaneous duties assigned to him, that he'd return to find the kid back behind the typewriter. It was awkward and unsettling and definitely not conducive to a positive work environment. Don found himself grabbing manilla folders and piles of paperwork, hiding behind them as he pretended to be deeply engulfed in accounts for Secor and Playtex, and at one time, a letter to a Janice Wayne who had apparently tested positive for something Don definitely didn't need to know. Each time he returned to his office, the kid would jump to his feet, ready to speak, before Don managed to hurry back inside and shut the door behind him.

Equal opportunity or not, it was incredibly unsettling to have a young man sitting behind a desk primarily inhabited by women. It just wasn't natural. 

The kid went out to lunch at 1PM. It was then that he hurried to Roger's office, breezing past the rest of the staff until he'd burst through the door. His tie felt like it was strangling him, his coat too hot. It was only the start of June, but it felt like it was the middle of July. He shut the door behind him as soon as he entered, his lips pursed tightly together as Roger looked up at him. Don half-expected to find Joan or Bert in there with them, but the office was thankfully empty bar the two of them.

'He has to go.'

'Who?'

'The- the _kid_.'

'Who?' Roger repeated. Then, with a smile, 'Steve? Oh, he's a riot. Wicked sense of humor. Drink?'

'What- no- yes- ' Don spluttered, trying to answer each statement and question in kind. 'What will the clients think?'

A chilled glass of whisky was passed over to him. Don barely noticed it as Roger fell back against his couch, twice the price of Don's own, and held a hand out. Without a word, Don sat down opposite him, resting the glass upon his knee.

'They'll think he's someone's son, here to get some work experience. It's close enough to the truth, ain't it?' he said, more of a statement than a question. 'It's 'til the end of the summer. You know it's impossible to find a reliable girl this time of year, anyway. Besides, aren't you away for a week around the fourth?'

Rolling his eyes, Don tossed the drink back, barely grimacing as it went down. Twelve weeks. Eleven, if he took away the vacation in July. That was manageable. Besides, the kid would likely get bored and drop the attentive act eventually and start chasing skirts. He reminded him a little of a young Pete Campbell, from some kind of old money and was only holding the job because he was bored. He was still struggling to rationalise that he was apparently in college. No kid who went to college had hair that ridiculous.

He was still there when Don returned from Roger's office a half-hour later. He stood up when he spotted Don approaching, his wide-eyes locked on, no doubt ready to take him down. Don waved off whatever question he was about to sprout, a mug held out with what seemed to be coffee or an incredibly black tea, neither of which he was in a mood to drink. Before the kid could step out from behind his desk (it wasn't _his_ desk, it was a _woman's_ desk, it had even been built shorter to accommodate a woman's frame), Don breezed into his office. The door shut behind him with a satisfying click and the knowledge that he couldn't be interrupted.

*

There was a soft knock on the door. Checking his watch, Don noted he still had a good hour before his next meeting. Most of the account managers would knock, wait five seconds, then stick their head in, while Roger would simply barge in, not caring what Don thought about it. Anybody else would require him to be buzzed. The second cautious knock signalled who was likely on the other side of the door. Wincing, Don scratched his brow and tried to make himself look a little more busy. 

The kid had lasted two days before he'd had enough and finally decided to break the vow of silence Don had bestowed upon himself. Don had to give him kudos for that. With a heavy sigh, he called for him to enter, but kept his head down as he drafted out his ideas for the next Maytag campaign. See, he was so damn busy he couldn't possibly have time to chat with his newest secretary. It had nothing to do with the fact that Steve was a boy. Man. Young man.

'Yes, Mister Harrington?' Don drawled, trying to make the sound of his pen scratching over the paper as loud as possible.

Steve actually looked a little stunned at the sound of his name. Don could easily picture him going home at night, wondering aloud to his roommates that his new boss didn't even know his name. It tickled Don a little to see him pause at that and fumble a little as he tried to smoothly move on to whatever it was that he'd interrupted Don about. 

'I was wondering if you'd like a coffee,' he said, producing a black cup.

Don eyed the cup and the steam rising off it. He'd likely been prompted by some of the other secretaries. It was half-ten, which was when most of the women started producing hot mugs of tea or coffee and waving them underneath the noses of the men in the office. It was actually quaint, seeing the kid awkwardly standing there and waiting for some direction.

'You don't even know how I take it.'

'Well, this one has two spoonfuls of sugar,' he said. Then, taking a step back towards his desk, he produced a second cup, this one white. 'And this one doesn't. I'll have whatever one you don't want. I go both ways.'

Steve took half a step into Don's office, holding out the cup with sugar. Pushing back from his desk, Don lifted his chin and eyeballed the cup. Black coffee swirled around inside, spinning around from the step Steve had taken. 

'I prefer it with milk.'

'I brought milk,' Steve said, nodding towards his desk. 'Just in case.'

Staring at Steve, Don felt himself trapped. He hated that feeling. He was being stepped into a corner and the only way out was to deny the coffee. There was no reason for him to do it. Hell, the only reason he was avoiding the kid was because he was a man. Young man. Boy. In possession of a penis. And while he'd definitely made a concerted effort to avoid becoming too amenable with some of his more recent secretaries, he hadn't outright avoided any of them. Not until now.

With a click of his tongue and a sigh, he nodded and reached out for the coffee with sugar. Steve grinned and handed it over, far too enthusiastic for such a simple task. He hurried out to retrieve the small milk jug. When he stepped back into the office, Don had already taken a seat.

'Here. Pull up a seat. Stay for a moment.'

Steve froze. He gave a small laugh, a weak smile appearing on his face, as he turned the offer over. Turning his head to look out the door, he made a small noise and gestured to his desk.

'The phone- '

'You'll hear it. I've been busy and haven't had a chance to properly meet you,' he lied smoothly. 'Sit. Just for a few minutes.'

Holding his cup tightly, Steve turned the offer over before he took a step towards Don's desk again, leaving the door open. Grabbing one of the heavy wooden chairs opposite the desk, he stepped around and eased himself down. Don couldn't help but wonder what he'd been told. The female secretaries were given one type of introduction, not just directed at Don, but at the men in the office in general. The account executives and creative staff were given another slew, about Don expecting a certain standard. Steve sat somewhere in the middle. He was a secretary, and being the newest meant he was the lowest on the totem pole. However, he wasn't Don's type. 

Sitting opposite Don, Steve kept his back straight, his posture stiff. He looked like he came from money. His hair was too stylish, the cut too nice, despite the ridiculous length. He was the type of kid Don had looked at in envy when he'd been the same age, the kind that had encouraged him to run away and join the army. But there was an unsettled nature to Steve, one that spoke of big town unfamiliarity. Instead of the army, he'd escaped to New York City, a place miles larger than anything he'd experienced before.

The jug of milk was set between them. Don paused and wrapped his hands around the cup Steve had given him. It didn't look like the kind they kept in the kitchenette. 

'Roger tells me you're related to Joan,' Don started, as it seemed like Steve didn't quite know what to say. That seemed like a safe topic and one built on familiarity.

'Oh. Well, yeah, but we're trying to keep that quiet,' Steve hurriedly said. 'She didn't get me the job or anything. I knew she worked in an advertising agency in New York, and that sounded interesting. When I applied, I didn't know it was this one. Really.'

That hadn't been the story Roger had told Don. Something about Steve's earnestness told him that was the story he believed, though. While Steve did have a certain level of charisma (and maybe that was a Holloway-Harrington family trait), he also bled honesty. It was refreshing, particularly in an advertising agency in New York, and reminded him of a certain female copywriter.

'She's your aunt, right?'

Steve shook his head. 'Second cousin, twice removed. It's just easier to say she's my aunt, due to the age difference.'

Don blinked. He'd never understood the blank-removed reference, and even now, wasn't entirely sure what it meant.

'On what side?' he asked, as that seemed to be the thing people typically asked.

'Both.'

Now he was definitely confused. It was better to move onto something he thought they could both talk about.

'You're in college, right?' he asked. When Steve nodded, he went on. 'Have you declared a major?'

'Business. I kind of like the work some of the guys do here. It seems interesting.'

Don's lips twitched. That had been unexpected. In the few times he'd spoken to college kids about working in an advertising agency, they'd spoken about going down the creative route. They'd try sucking up to Don in the hopes of getting a job. But there was Steve and his honesty, shrugging as he sipped the bitter, black coffee.

'Really?'

Steve nodded.

'Not creative? Sales?'

Steve shook his head at that. Then, after a pause, he shrugged.

'So if I asked you to, say, sell this pen...' Don lifted up his Shaeffer for Steve to see. 'What would you say?'

'Oh- oh, I'm not- ' Steve stammered, catching the pen when Don lightly tossed it to him. He had a good hand, and Don wondered if he had played baseball at school. 

'That's what their job is. Selling an image, an idea. I'm just creating the product for the client. The accounts team make them want it.'

Steve laughed softly. Bowing his head, he turned the pen around in his hand while he sipped his coffee. When he looked up, his head turned away slightly, he shook his head and shrugged a shoulder.

'If you want to get into accounts, that's what you need to do.'

'I know, I know,' Steve said, holding up a hand. 'I just... right now I'm your secretary. I'm not...'

He gestured weakly to the pen with his coffee cup. With a shrug, Steve glanced back towards his desk. Following his gaze, Don noted the photo frame that had appeared in the past couple of days. It wasn't an unusual sight. Many secretaries had something similar, particularly those who were married or had a small child. Steve looked far too young to have either of those, particularly as he was still in college. Even so, he'd never put it past anyone, least of all Steve. There was something guarded about him, even during his bouts of honesty.

'I guess I'm just- there's still a lot I'm learning,' he finally said. 'Especially here. I haven't even fully decided if this is the industry I'd like to get into.'

Taking a sip of his coffee, Don realised he hadn't even poured the milk in. Screwing his nose up, he set the cup down and grabbed the small jug of milk. The porcelain clinked as he poured it in, the coffee mixing. Steve had forgotten to bring him a spoon, but he'd let it slide. Rocking the cup side to side to let the milk and coffee mix, he let himself take a small sip. Despite it not being adequately mixed, it was as sweet as he liked it; he wondered if Joan had given him some pointers as to how he preferred his coffee.

Steve's phone began to ring. He swallowed a breath too quickly and began to cough, pushing to his feet as he lurched up. Clearing his throat, he took a step to leave, only for the phone to cut off. Even so, Steve turned on the ball of his foot and nodded to the doorway.

'I should get back to work,' he said with a smile. 'Thanks for the chat. It's nice to know you're, I dunno, _real_ , instead of just a door.''

Trying to take that as a compliment, as it was no doubt intended to be, Don just nodded. He watched as Steve smoothed out the front of his shirt and tie and went back to his desk. He was still holding Don's pen, the Shaeffer clutched in his fist. Steve didn't stop when Don cleared his throat, and it took him saying the kid's name for him to stop and turn.

'Yes, Mister Draper?'

Don made a gesture like he was writing, and pointed up to Steve's hand. With a blank expression, Steve looked down at his hand and raised it up, as though noticing the pen for the first time. He held it up, letting it wiggle between his fingers as though he were taunting Don. With barely effort at all, he tossed it lightly in the air, letting it flip around before he neatly caught it at one end. Yeah, the kid had definitely played baseball at some point.

'Sorry, did you want this?'

The kid was playing him. Don didn't know whether to be fed up or impressed. With a softly amused breath, he sank back in his chair and watched as Steve toyed with the pen. He had the damn audacity to even look smug about. A smirk twitched on his lips, causing the freckles on his jaw to twitch and dance. Don shook his head, a smile betraying his intentions. Steve caught the look and waggled his eyebrows, lifting his chin a little.

'That's the oldest technique in the book,' Don drawled. 

'Yeah, maybe. But I still made you want it.'

He tossed the pen over in an easy arc. Lifting his hand, Don caught in time, though without the easy grace Steve had. Leaning against the door frame, Steve took a step out, his foot in the doorway. 

'Will there be anything else, Mister Draper?'

'Not just now, Mister Harrington.'

Steve nodded his head. It was almost visible, how the mask slipped back over. The smile became polite, his posture straightening again. Even his hair, with that ridiculous curl brushed over his brow, seemed to have flattened out. Despite his protestations otherwise, Steve did seem quite adept at selling an image. There was something steely underneath the soft image he held. With the door partly open, he watched as Steve slipped back into his seat, just as the phone began to ring again. Rocking back in his seat, Don held the pen to his lips, still warm from Steve's grip, and kept his eyes on him. The coffee cup was set down, the photo frame was adjusted, and another pen was pulled out as he scrawled down a note for later. With that, Don returned to his own previous notes, his pen in hand, the other wrapped around the coffee cup that Steve had given him.

*

Roger strolled into his office a little past noon the following Thursday. Don could hear the kid trying to stop him, an uneasy noise coming from him as the chair screeched as he stood, Roger's surname on his tongue. Roger was waving him off, shrugging away the noises of protests as he entered Don's office. For all of five seconds, Don caught a glance of the kid, his wide, mildly panicked eyes resting on Don before the door was shut in his face.

'Sweet kid,' Roger remarked, with enough of a biting tone that Don knew not to take it seriously. 'Is it just me, or is their pleading not quite as effective when they're male?'

Already on his feet and pulling out his ever-present packet of Lucky Strikes, Don slid one into his mouth and offered another to Roger. It was taken and subsequently lit before Don could even sit back down. The lighter was thrown back and landed squarely on his lap in the crease of his pants. Picking it out, he set it down and looked squarely over his desk at Roger. 

'I've been on the phone,' Roger started before Don could poke him to explain why he was there.

'That never puts me at ease as much as you think it does.'

The contacts Roger had often led to great success, but there were times when Don felt like they were being put on a rabbit hunt. They'd spend weeks chasing their tails, without the possibility of ever quite reaching what the client wanted. With an arched brow, he crossed his legs under his desk and nodded towards Roger.

'It's big.'

'How big?'

Leaning over, Roger placed his elbows on the desk, his cigarette wafting with smoke. It was a comforting smell. Some people found spearmint comforting, or buttered popcorn, or their mother's fragrant perfume. For Don, though, it was the acrid smell of tobacco. It was a safety blanket, he understood that. While alcohol would leave him feeling like hell (and had led to the occasional crash in his car), cigarettes had never done that. 

'Government.'

The moment that word left Roger's lips, Don found himself reaching for the Lucky Strikes again. While Roger was waiting for some positive reaction, Don found it difficult to provide any.

'It's a government contract. C'mon, this is what we're aiming for.’

Don's lip twitched. As much as he loved the idea of a government contract, with it's long plan and guaranteed cash flow (if they won it), government contracts also came with other problems. Clearances, for one. Background checks. Potential investigations. While that was unlikely to occur in the preliminary stage, it was definitely a potential risk if they won it. Maybe Don could swing it so he wasn't on the creative team, but that didn't always mean he'd be in the clear. He'd heard stories of companies winning contracts from the military, and then losing it because of one junior secretary having a petty theft conviction to her name from her high school years. With the cigarette between his lips, he pushed himself up and onto his feet.

'I thought we wanted a car.’

'This is like a car, only bigger.’

That definitely had Don frowning. Turning on the ball of his foot, he made his way to his liquor cabinet. Whisky was a distraction for Roger as much as it was a way for Don to rack his brain and try to find a way out. He knew it would be brilliant if they could get it, but given how excited Roger was right then, he doubted this was a simple local government, Department of Parks type deal. When he turned around, Roger already had his hand outstretched, ready to take the glass.

'Four million,’ he started. 'Initially. For the first campaign only. There's currently talk for that to triple over five years.’

'What, like Stalin's first five years?’

Roger rolled his eyes. 'Ha. Very funny.’

Guiding him to the couch, Don sat down and hunched over his knees in the armchair. Finally, he took the cigarette from his mouth and set it in the ashtray on the table. Roger sat down opposite him, a foot crossed over his knee. There was an excitement in his eyes that wasn't putting him at ease. These types of deals that he managed to accrue from nowhere were either a sure thing or they didn't have a chance in hell. And if it was government, then they were already on the back foot. It could work in their favour if they played their cards right. A small company would have less potential leaks, unlike a big one. It was a small chance, though, and not one Don really wanted to put to the test. Not that he wanted to take this opportunity at all, if he could get out of it.

It would be good for company, though. Roger and Bert had both been pushing him to sign a contract. Betty was, too, though he was trying not to think about it. If they scored the contract, though, and Don was put on to lead it, he could use that in his favour. Not just a contract, but something greater than that, like his name on the front door.

His head was hurting just turning over the possibilities. 

‘So, what is it? Defence? Health?’

'Energy,’ Roger replied evenly. 'It's a small department, but growing and it's becoming very important. I heard they worked on the Manhattan project.'

'You sound a bit unsure.'

'It's new.'

New meant shady. New meant Don wasn't sure he should even be involved. He needed another drink already.

Clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he settled back against his chair and looked at the wall behind Roger. He also likely didn't have a choice. There were certain roads he didn't want to go down, and this was one of them. 

'We need to be down in Washington in six weeks,' Roger was continuing on, spelling out the details of the arrangement. 

Don was only half listening, nodding along. There wasn't going to be any getting out of it. Once the details of the plan arrived, along with the preparatory cheque, they'd be off. He already knew the team he'd be assigning, as well as the hotel he'd be staying at, all before Roger had finished. With a nod, he took a final drag of his cigarette and made a show of checking his watch. 

'I have a meeting with Diana's at the end of the hour. Are you coming?' he asked, referring to their newest client. It was a small, family-owned business from the west coast that they'd gained at the last convention.

The conversation about the Department of Energy wasn't filling him with great enthusiasm. While an account with only six digits was nothing for the company (and Don't own personal level of energy could be utilised elsewhere), it was a safer bet than some burgeoning federal department. Besides, Diana's Foods were unlikely to require a background check that would jeopardise not only the company's standing, but ruin his life.

'I've got lunch with one of the reps for the contract,' Roger replied. Then, 'have we got a translator for Diana's yet?'

'I'm still working on it.'

By the time Roger left, Don had finished his glass of whisky and smoked his cigarette down to the end. Time was racing up for his meeting with the newest client, and while he didn't mind being late to meetings with his fellow employees, clients were another matter entirely. Pushing up to his feet, he grabbed his briefcase, coat, and headed out. He nodded to Steve who was tapping away at his desk; his eyes lit up, a deep honey brown that momentarily caught Don off-guard, until Pete arrived hot on his heels and launched into a discussion about their upcoming meeting.

*

Despite common belief, there were days where Don arrived on time at the office. There were even times when he arrived early. They were rare, for sure, and Don didn't advertise them (despite being his profession), but he didn't completely disregard his duties in the office. While late nights were more up his alley, particularly if he was entertaining a client, there was something calming about being the first one in the office. The air would be still, the blinds lowered so only a soft, orange glow would come through the windows. Sometimes he liked to stand outside his office door and looked out at the sea of desks, his mind playing over different memories that had all taken place under this ceiling. 

As he turned to his office door that morning, his eyes rested on the frame that sat upon Steve's desk. Although he never admitted it (much like his the days where he arrived early) he was always charmed by these windows into people's lives. When he walked through the sea of desks, in between meetings and coffees that he made himself, he liked to look down at them. Partners and children, parents and friends. These were snapshots in somebody's life, a moment they chose to keep, framed upon their desk. Without thinking about it, Don picked up the frame that sat atop Steve's and looked at the time his newest secretary had chosen to capture on his desk. 

The frame itself was cheap and possibly made out of pine. The edges had been battered, like it had been transported from place to place. But the glass had been carefully wiped down, and Don was sure he had seen Steve polishing it during his lunch break. And there, behind the reflective surface, was the image itself. It was a black-and-white photo, and slightly grainy with age. There was a boy and a girl, a few years younger than Steve; they were possibly old school friends or classmates. Both had sharp features. The girl was smiling at the camera, somewhat coy, while the boy had turned away slightly, his nose pressed to her temple as though he wasn't sure if he wanted the photo to be taken or not. 

There was no indication of names, when the photo was taken, or who these people were to Steve. While Don assumed they were old friends and former classmates, they could equally be a pair of second cousins, twice removed, just as Joan was. It was simply a portrait to an outside world of Steve's that he wasn't privy to. 

Setting the frame back down, he tilted it carefully back in the direction it had been pointed. He took a step to his office, then stopped. Pivoting, he reached down and pulled opened a drawer in the desk. Finding a sheet of paper and a pen, he scrawled a note and stuck it under the lip of the frame.

_Careful – could fall._  
_Thanks,_  
_D.D._

*

As the days began to turn into weeks, each creeping by as slow as the impending summer heat, Don began to grow accustomed to Steve's presence. Like taffy melting in the sun, his edges began to soften and he found himself growing a little sweet to the kid. Steve was a notorious flirt, as awful as any of the other accounts men (and most of creative), but he wasn't as barbed as some of the other men. It wasn't just the younger women he'd flirt with, either. He smiled at the older women, sometimes more so, wiggling his eyebrows at Ann and Mary and Dot, who were all well into their forties and fifties. 

Don grew used to his coffee. Steve made it bitter, even with the added milk and sugar. At first it had been too strong, and Don's upper lip would twitch as he tried to swallow it down. But it woke him up in the morning, and he began to find it cutting into his hangover and making himself feel more prepared for the day. It allowed him to tackle things, like early meetings with Secor, phone calls to Diana's and folders stuffed with notes from Roger about government departments. Each morning, he'd arrive to find the cup waiting for him; or, if it wasn't, Steve would be hurrying to meet him in his office, carrying a white cup with black coffee, and a black cup with white coffee. Don began to suspect he'd actually bought a matching pair, as he had checked and was now certain Sterling Cooper didn't carry mugs like that.

It also began to make him incredibly susceptible to suggestion.

One morning, in the last week of June, Steve came in holding the two cups of coffee. He went to set Don's cup on his desk, as he typically did, when Don reached up and took it from him without looking. The night before had been late, partly due to a fight with Betty, partly due to him drinking until midnight (which may or may not have been due to the former, and may or may not have been the general cause of the argument). He took a swig, noted the bitterness, and took a glance down. It was darker than typical, and Don wondered if the milk hadn't been delivered yet. Steve typically came in with the small milk jug, though Don had been using it less and less. The strength of the coffee, though, had him going back for a second sip as he felt it wake him up.

'Mister Draper?'

'Mm?'

'I was wondering- '

Never a good sign. Don, though, just looked up and tried to focus on Steve in front of him. His tie was a soft blue with flecks of pink in it. Don didn't even know where he could have acquired such a tie.

'Well, y'see, it's my best friend's birthday today, and he still lives in Hawkins. I was wondering- normally I wouldn't even ask, but I was hoping if I'd be allowed to call him after work.'

Don eyed Steve, wondering where the question was. He made a motion for him to continue, and Steve fumbled. 

'Um. Well. It's a long distance call. It won't be long, but I'd really like to wish him a happy birthday. The cost to send his gift over was more than I expected, so I wouldn't be able to afford the phone bill if I made it at my apartment, but I'm happy to stay back- '

 _Oh_. He was asking permission to make a personal call after work. With a laugh, Don took another sip of his coffee and waved at him with his other hand, a vague affirming, albeit shooing, motion as Steve offered to stay back for the rest of July to make up for the charges. His headache from exhaustion only meant he wanted Steve to leave him and his coffee in peace.

'Yeah, that's- I need to get this done. Get this typed up, will you?'

Steve took the notes, immediately gushing his thanks as he scurried out. Don watched him leave, and caught him adjusting the photo frame on his desk as he sat down. He was sure he hadn't seen the kid smile that wide before, and, despite himself, he found it sweet. Steve as a whole, Don had found, was sweet. He continued to remind Don of Peggy, with his earnestness and need to please. Unlike Peggy, though, there was a hardness to him that had been there when he arrived. He held his own, and Don was beginning to suspect that the kid already knew his worth. Someone had put him through his ropes before, and Don wondered who and when, but didn't care enough to ask.

By the time Don was getting ready to leave that evening, the office mostly quiet, he paused to stop at his office door. Through the wall, he could hear Steve speaking into the phone, and he opened the door a crack to eavesdrop. Steve was cradled around the phone as he played with the edges of the photo frame as he spoke to somebody called Dustin and wished him a happy birthday. He seemed softer. The corners of his eyes crinkled up as he laughed, his shoulders slouching as he relaxed into his seat. Don waited, almost with baited breath, for his name to come up but it never did. He waited until the end of the phone call and Steve had begun to pack up to leave before he headed out. He nodded once to Steve, who smiled and wished him a safe trip home. It didn't mean anything, his name not being brought up. Dustin probably didn't even know who he was.

*

Roger had set up a meeting for the two of them with the media representative at the Department of Energy. They were going to be talking about the initial plan and what they were looking for in the presentation. Don wasn't entirely sure how he had scored the meeting (meeting being more like a 'meeting' where drinks were poured and the discussion was carefully angled towards them finding a hook), and he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to go. Something about it unsettled him.

If a car gave an agency prestige, then a government contract gave them a financial backbone. It was good to win. Even a small account, like the Department of Parks or something banal, like the Department of Agriculture for a small town in upstate New York was good. It showed versatility and reliability. 

The cash wouldn't go astray, either. The discussions about Sterling Cooper being bought out by another company were becoming more likely with each passing day. McCann Erickson were breathing down their necks and searching their pockets for lost change and lost accounts. There were also whispers of an overseas agency looking for a brick and mortar location on the US mainland.

Acquiring a government department account, though, would soothe those concerns. It would also create a whole new series for Don. Security clearances and background checks would send him running. If he could stay off the account, then maybe it would be fine, but given how Roger was talking to him about it in-depth and trying to assuage him to be more positive about it, Don didn't think he had a chance of excusing himself.

He argued initially about having plans. He couldn't remember what his initial excuse was, but he was sure it was something about Sally having ballet or Betty having people over for dinner. The sort of thing Don ought to be there for but Roger, unfortunately, wouldn't hold too much weight about. When that finished, he gave a side-stepping argument about politics. Don didn't want be involved with a government department that they couldn't clearly explain and may or may not have been involved with making nuclear weapons. That wouldn't work on a veteran like Roger, though, so finally he pulled out the last thing he could think of saying.

'I've got to work on the Diana's account.'

'Do that later,' Roger said with a wave of his hand. 

Don knew he was beginning to suspect that he was trying to get out of it, but he shook his head. Meetings with potentially shady government individuals might mean a shake down. Don wasn't biting.

'Steve's helping.'

'Who?'

Don jerked his thumb at Roger's office door and shrugged. 'The kid. He's helping me.'

Well, it wasn't a complete lie. Steve was helping- by doing his job and typing up Don's dictation. Sure, they weren't staying after work to do it, but maybe if Don slipped him five bucks, he'd go along with the lie. And there really was a meeting booked with some of the Diana's team the following afternoon, which he wanted to be prepared for. Winning an account was just as much as the final product as it was the romance and dance ahead of time.

'I have a meeting with them tomorrow, anyway. The scope isn't complete yet. Tell your buddy I said hi.'

As he left, he saw Roger roll his eyes. He made a motion as though to coax Don around again, but he'd already walked through the doorway. The door closed behind him and he'd already begun to push the potential account from his mind. Now he just had to call Steve to make an appointment with Diana's. He'd figure something out to talk about that afternoon.

*

The office was quiet. At some point, the sun had set and Don hadn't even realised it. He'd been asleep, draped over his couch, while nursing off the effects of his liquid business lunch with Diana's Foods. The headache that remained was taunting him, reminding him that he really needed to eat something before he went and did that again. Rubbing his forehead, feeling his pulse in his temples, he managed to slowly push himself up. The room threatened to keen to the side with him, but somehow it remained upright. Good. That was good.

Pushing himself into a seated position, he took a breath. It was late. The office seemed dark outside his door. Groping around, he blindly felt for the lamp beside the couch. Flicking it on, he hissed as the light burned his eyes. With his elbows on his knees, he rubbed his temples. The late June humidity was sweltering under his clothes, and he had half a mind to strip his shirt off and stuff it in the freezer in the kitchen. There was likely nobody here this time of night, and if there were, they'd likely seen him in a state of undress before. 

Water. He needed water. 

Pushing up, he spotted a bucket of ice on his coffee table. Right, he'd asked the kid to get him one when he'd returned. It had initially been about staving off his hangover with hair of the dog, but it had since melted. That would work. One of his shirt sleeves was unbuttoned, while the other was still snug around his wrist. Fumbling with it, he pushed both sleeves up around his elbows and dove his hands into the chilly water. Despite the summertime heat, it had remained cold. With a sigh of relief, he splashed it over his face.

Standing, he cupped some of the water in his hand and ran it over the back of his neck. As his mind began to click back into gear, he finally had a thought to check the time. Holding his watch up to the light, he squinted at it until the digits were visible. Twenty-five minutes to eight. It was later than he'd expected. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the bucket of ice. He might still make the train if he hurried. There was always a hotel, but his shirt was saturated with sweat, and he didn't want to have to go to the effort of purchasing a new one in the morning.

Briefcase. Jacket. Hat. Why did he still have to bring a coat in the dead of summer? If Betty hadn't been in such a sour mood, they could have very well been going on their usual trip the following week, but instead, she had cancelled at the last minute.

Juggling everything, he set the bucket back down on the table. Steve could grab it in the morning; Don just wanted to get out. His office had become stifling, and not just because Roger's words about them possibly scoring a contract with the Department of Energy coming back to taunt him.

There was a knock on the door. It was unexpected and made him jolt. He hadn't heard the noise of any of the janitors, and typically the rest of the staff avoided one another this time of night. If someone was staying behind, they were generally doing so with the plan to avoid anyone else. The tentative knock, uncertain but with a familiar pattern, caused Don to pause. Calling out a hello to let them enter, the door opened cautiously. It definitely wasn't filled with trepidation about potential men in black suits coming to question his identity after Roger's lunch with his contact.

'Mister Draper?

Steve. Of course it was Steve. The sweet, earnest kid, who was still unsure how to place himself in the Sterling Cooper business. Standing in the doorway, looking uneasy, he waved carefully. Don swallowed back the bile that was churning over in his gut and tried to look as less hungover as possible.

'You're still here?''

The words were uttered before Don realised he'd said them. The back of his mind was still clicking away, taking it all in. The late hour, the tired look on Steve's expression, his rumpled clothes. Peering past him, he saw a book on his desk and the remains of a sandwich.

'Yeah. Mister Sterling said I couldn't leave until you'd gone home for the day.'

'When did he say that?'

'A few weeks ago, when I started.'

Don's head was pounding too hard for him to do the math right then, and he appreciated Steve supplying him the time frame. Even so, as he closed his eyes and smacked his lips, he recalled the nights he'd stayed back, only to find Steve still at his desk, busying himself somehow. It hadn't been all that frequent, or even that late, but it had been enough to no doubt inconvenience Steve. This was the latest night, though. 

'You don't- you don't have to- ' Don attempted, his voice sounding thick and rough to his own ears. He needed coffee. He needed a prairie oyster. 

'Well, normally I don't mind,' Steve rushed. 'But... well, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I do this class, see, at NYU, because they run a summer school. And any classes I take now count as credits for Rochester, it's really awesome and I was even thinking of transferring because I've been enjoying living in New York- '

'Get on with it,' Don drawled, unable and unwilling to keep up with Steve's breathy, long-winded description.

'Okay, well, my class starts at eight, and it takes me forty-five minutes to get there, so I'm already going to be late. Is it okay if I leave?'

Don stared at him. The only reason he was staring was because Steve was the only steady point in the room right then. His hair was ridiculous as ever, blown up with humidity, and he was worrying his full lower lip. Behind him, his bag was packed and ready at the foot of his desk, his typewriter already covered. The book, he could now see, was a textbook of some kind. The kid had been waiting two and a half hours unnecessarily, due to a line Roger had thrown his way, likely as a joke, and he was still asking permission to leave. 

It reminded Don of kids who had returned from the war. Traumatised and stuck in a regimented lifestyle that had protected them and saved their lives. Steve didn't dress like an army brat, and he sure as hell didn't speak like one. But he'd seen Don, sunk his fingers into him like any other private joes out there, and needed reassurance.

It was too much for his drunken state.

'Yeah. Yeah. Wait- wait, let me get you cash for a cab.'

'No, I don't- if I run, I can make the train, I'll only be five- ten minutes late.'

'No. Here.' Already pulling cash from his wallet, Don crossed over and shoved it in Steve's front shirt pocket. 'Leave when the rest of the girls do. I'm not going to ask you to stay, especially if you have class.'

It was less to avoiding inconveniencing Steve, and more because Don didn't want any eye witnesses if he had a guest around.

Steve visibly twitched. Then, nodding, he smiled, as bright as ever and took a step back. 

'Thank you. Thank you, Mister Draper. Have a nice night. Get home safe,' he wheezed, before turning and grabbing his bag and book. 

Don watched him leave, until he disappeared past a pillar and had left his view. It took him longer to get ready to leave. Jacket, briefcase, hat. He'd had them at some point. At the last minute, he decided to collect the bucket of what was once ice from the coffee table and went to pour it out in the kitchen. It was the least the could do.

*

By the time morning came around and Don had returned to the office, he was feeling more like himself. The headache had eased off, his mouth was no longer filled with cotton wool. The heat, though, was still sweltering, and Don found himself walking into the office with his coat draped over his arm and his hat fanning his face. The small of his back was already tinged with sweat, and he longed to just stand in front of the fan or refrigerator and cool off. 

Steve was already at his desk. One of the girls from down in the accounts area was flaunting herself on his desk. Pausing a few desks down, Don grabbed one of Campbell's folders and began to flick through it, pretending he was busy reading whatever notes had been made from last time. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Steve. While he seemed to be lapping up the attention, his fingers dancing over his lower lip, his expression began to change. It was minute, and most wouldn't pick it up. Don, though, had learned how to read others. The nuances in body language were important in advertising, and meetings could be dictated over a twitch in a lap or a glance of an eye. 

Marnie, the girl standing by Steve's desk, was playing with the photo frame. Tilting his head to the side, Don watched as Steve kept nudging the photo frame away from her, trying to be subtle about his frustrations. She picked it up and began to fuss with it, her nails tapping over the glass. Steve pursed his lips and tilted his chin up, trying to coax it away from her. With his mind made up, Don headed away from Campbell's office, the folio under his arm.

'Miss Fernwood,' he started, as he neared his office. Then, when he didn't get her attention, ' _Marnie_. Take this to Harry Crane. Steve, my office.'

Flinging the folder at her, Don noticed two cups of coffee on Steve's desk. The black cup contained milky coffee, while the white cup, already partly downed, was rich and black. Taking the white cup, he nodded his head for Steve to follow, who was already scampering up with a notepad in hand. He chased Don inside the office and shut the door when asked, the notepad already raised.

'A Mister Burke called about dinner tonight. You had nothing in your calendar, so I said I'd call back to confirm the details. Ah, Maytag have had to shift their Tuesday meeting to Wednesday. The laundry angle, I don't know what that is, but Mister Cosgrove said- '

'How was your class?'

'What?' Steve looked up, his train of thought abruptly cut off. 

'Your class. Did you make it on time?'

Steve watched as Don pulled out a cigarette and proceeded to light it. Clearing his throat, his eyes darted around the room and he nodded, tucking the notepad under his arm as he hesitantly stepped towards Don's desk. When he wasn't stopped, he eased himself down into the seat opposite him, much less cocky than he'd been weeks ago when offering him a cup of coffee.

'I'm so confused,' Steve muttered, probably intending not to be heard.

Don decided to let it slide.

'You seemed excited about it last night. You said you were going to be late.'

'Yeah- I mean, I do like it, I wasn't late. We were conjugating verbs. It's similar to what I've done in Rochester, but it's always nice to have an alternate approach on it.'

'What course are you taking?'

'Spanish. Spanish IV, more specifically. I'm hoping if I pass this course, I'll free up some time so I can do, like, basic French or something next semester.'

That took Don by surprise. Well-meaning and earnest Steve didn't strike him as the type to show any interest in languages. Looking him over, he tried to imagine the kid being exposed to anything except white bread back in Hawkins, and he couldn't picture it. In actuality, he was fairly certain Indiana still happened to be one of the most segregated states.

'So you like languages?'

Steve shrugged a shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, but he made it look effortless. He had no doubt been one of the popular kids at school, the one all the girls had fawned over back in the day. They still did, if the secretary pool was anything to go by.

'I read a study before I left for college,' he said, scratching the side of his nose. 'In fifty years, the most commonly spoken languages in the world, aside from English, will be Mandarin, Spanish, Russian and Arabic.'

'And you chose Spanish? Why not Mandarin?'

Steve gave the same effortless shrug. 

'We're closer to Spanish speaking people. And... I dunno, Mandarin seems pretty difficult. It's all tonal. But French is pretty similar to Spanish, and I'm really enjoying it. I did French at school. Japanese is meant to be fairly easy, at least in learning the sounds. The writing is meant to be hard, though.'

'Don't let Roger hear you say that,' Don quipped.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, he watched as Steve flicked through his notebook. He cleared his throat, tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and tapped his toes on the floor. Don's mind was turning over, considering this new piece of information. On his desk were advertising materials for several clients. Running his hand over them, he came across one that they had been stalling on. It was a new angle for Sterling Cooper, and something he'd been bouncing ideas off with Peggy. Nothing had yet stuck, but he felt they were beginning to make headway.

'How's your fluency?'

'Uh. It's okay?' he admitted abruptly. 'I mean... I can hold a basic conversation and, I dunno, I guess if I went down to Mexico, I could make my way around. But, my teacher said if you can listen to two native speakers have a conversation and you can follow them, even a little, you're pretty fluent. I can pick out a little, I dunno... I can get the gist. Why?'

It was a habit of Steve's. Don would ask a simple question, and he'd receive a life story. He was also incredibly hard on himself, which wouldn't serve him well if he was actually intending to go into this business.

'Have you ever heard of Diana's Food?'

Steve shook his head. Holding the cigarette between his lips, Don pulled out some of the artwork that had been produced and handed it over.

'We have a meeting with them tomorrow. They're a Mexican company, based in LA. They're looking at expanding over here. Believe it or not, but no one here speaks Spanish. French, sure, even German. But not Spanish.'

Holding the sketch between his hands, Steve eyeballed the artwork and looked up at Don.

'I don't... I mean, I can say hello and introduce myself, but- I don't... what?'

'They know we don't have a translator here. They do,' Don said gently. 'But it would make a good impression if you were to be there and introduce us. Besides, it'll let you see how Pete works an account.'

Lowering the image down, Don watched as the cogs turned over in Steve's head. With a small gulp, he nodded, a look of worry on his face that was quickly swallowed down and replaced with uneasy confidence. While Don was tempted to ask if he wanted to try his hand at translating some of the advertisements they had been creating in front of him, he decided to hold back for now.

'Look, you just need to say hello, nice to meet you, and if you can introduce each of us, that would be great.'

'What if they try to have a conversation?'

Don laughed and shook his head. 'They speak English fine. It's the thought that counts.'

Particularly in New York and in advertising. As far as he knew, places like CGC and JWT had yet to provide that kind of service. And while Sterling Cooper technically didn't either, he knew this would win them points. Maybe he was using Steve's fervent nature to his own advantage, but this was Manhattan. More specifically, this was Madison Avenue; Steve was lucky Don was being so forthright with him. 

'Tell you what. You do a good job, I'll buy you a drink after.'

Steve's eye twitched. For once, Don had no idea what that meant. With a deep breath, Steve rubbed the back of his neck and cast his eyes up to the ceiling. Finally, he nodded. 

'Sure. It'll be a good experience.'

'That's the spirit,' Don laughed. 'Now scat. I need to actually finish the pitch.'

As effervescent as ever, Steve smiled and he nodded his head again. With a deep breath, he pulled the notebook back into his chest. Turning on the ball of his foot, he headed from the room. He went to shut the door, before leaving it open just a few inches. Although Don would have typically preferred it closed, he found himself not bothering to correct Steve. It was nice, in a way, to peer out and to see the kid tapping away at the typewriter, a smile on his slightly reddened cheeks.

*

Don had the joy of announcing to Bert and Roger that he'd found someone to work alongside the Diana's Food account. After explaining that the work could easily be rolled into Steve's current duties, Bert was happily onboard, simply glad they wouldn't need to look outside the agency. Roger, on the other hand, was a little more restrained in the way he took the news. He didn't want another little upstart like Peggy, who, while definitely talented, had altered the dynamic of the entire office with her mere presence and job. Don assured him that nothing like that was going to happen, and besides, Steve's contract was only until the end of the summer, and then he'd be back at whatever college he was presently attending.

(Rochester. Don knew he was attending Rochester.)

As Steve's first meeting with Diana's arrived, he seemed to be positively vibrating with excitement. There was some uncertain trepidation there, to be sure, but he was clearly looking forward to it. Don could see it in the way he moved and spoke about it. The tags that the creative team had written up were given to Don, who passed them on to Steve to translate. He took his time, carefully translating each page so that the phrases not only made sense, but kept the hook that Don and the team had been going for. After receiving permission, Steve even went so far as to take the translations to his teacher to ensure they were correct. Don appreciated the length he was going to, and he could see how Steve would eventually became a good account executive if he kept it up.

The meeting went well. Steve was damn near shivering with anticipation, and Pete kept throwing Don furtive glances as they made their way into the meeting room. Steve was buzzing, which wouldn't help with their presentation as a professional ad agency. However, just as the client walked through the door, Steve calmed down. He smiled, smoothed down his tie (which, Don noted, was also muted and far more professional than the usual ties he wore), and introduced himself in Spanish when he shook the representatives from Diana's Food's hands. 

As Don expected, the clients were thrilled. Even Steve seemed tickled by their response. Don took the time to explain that they decided to go for a bilingual approach, and that Steve had provided the translations. While this hadn't been the original scope of the project, Don often liked to test the waters like that. It went down well; they laughed in delight, which caused Steve to sit a little straighter and glance towards Don for approval.

They received approval to go ahead with their current direction. Although Steve's contribution had been small in the entire scope, it had still played a part. After the meeting, Don clapped Steve on the shoulder as they headed back to their office and desk respectively.

'Let me uphold my end of the bargain and take you out for a drink after work. You earned it.'

'Seriously?' Steve asked, a little flustered as his fingers ran over the edge of the photo frame on the desk.

Don shrugged a shoulder. 'Sure. It's custom.'

It wasn't, but that didn't matter. The delight in Steve's face was enough. He beamed at Don, nodded, and went to sit down. As he did, he adjusted the position of the frame, his eyes darting over it for a brief moment. Don could imagine him calling his friends later (perhaps even Dustin) and gushing about how he'd done in the meeting. As Don stood in the doorway of his office, he looked over his shoulder at the smiling couple in the photo who watched Steve as he worked. They'd be proud of him; he was sure of it.

*

The bar Don took them to was casual and not something he would typically frequent with many others at the office. From the way Steve's eyes lit up, though, it was likely a few pay brackets outside of his price range. He turned and looked about as they entered, a smile on his face. Although Steve dressed well and was fussy with his hair, Don had the impression that he was more small town rich, rather than being wealthy enough to afford to spend money anywhere noteworthy in New York.

There were questions he wanted to ask, but he held back. He smiled and let Steve order what he wanted (something fruity, which Don couldn't help but chuckle about), while he ordered his typical whisky-based cocktail. All the while, Steve just grinned, stretching back as his foot tapped along to the music that was playing.

It was nice to go to a low-key bar as well. Don so often went to places that required a level of formality. While this place still definitely required dress pants and polished shoes, there were men with their ties loosened and collars unbuttoned. Steve blended in well, as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them up. They found a pair of seats away from the bar with a table between them that wobbled. Don sat down carefully while Steve flopped back, his hair bouncing and curling over his brow. Steve's drink was almost finished before he'd even loosened his tie.

'This is so cool. We've got nothing like this in Hawkins,' he gushed, his cheeks already a little flushed from the cocktail. It was strong, like most of the drinks here.

'Small town?'

'Smaller than New York, that's for sure,' Steve said, picking up his glass again and taking a sip through the straw. 'But it's not the smallest town. I think people just assume that because it's not as connected to other towns. We've always been pretty cut off. We're about a twenty, thirty minute drive to the next town, which is north east.'

There was a pattern to the way Steve spoke, a lilt that was vaguely familiar in Joan's own voice. The rhythm and upward tones were enough to put him at ease. The pronunciation of certain words also drew Don back to his earliest years, when he lived close to Chicago.

'I'm glad to be out of there, though. Hawkins is...' He drifted off and waved a hand.

'A small town?'

With a laugh, Steve nodded. 'Yeah.'

Something about the name of the town was ringing a bell, but Don couldn't figure out what. It wasn't just the association with Steve and Joan, nor the possibility of having once seen _Hawkins High_ emblazoned on something of Joan's. Scratching his brow, he finished his drink and motioned for the waitress to bring him another, along with one for Steve. As the two new drinks were brought over, he settled back in his chair.

'Hawkins...' Don murmured, squinting into his glass. 'I think my Uncle Mack was from the next town over. Eagleburg, Eagletown...'

'Eagleton?' Steve offered, to which Don nodded, because yeah, that sounded close enough. Steve was quiet for a moment as he sipped his own whisky-based drink, the rim of his glass to his lower lip. 'Is he, like, a tall guy? Dark hair, kinda scruffy, sorta heavy-set?'

Pausing, Don sat up a little straighter. He was fairly certain the guy had died, but it was hard to say. In his experience, the bottom-feeders of the Earth had a way of hanging on, spreading their disease wherever he went. He could picture Mack moving on someplace, setting up a new business in some hole in the back end of Indiana, corrupting more innocent souls wherever he went.

'Yeah, I- '

Steve began to laugh and set his drink down. It sloshed over the rim as he waved a hand, laughing loudly enough that a couple of patrons at the bar turned to look over their shoulders, before returning to their own business.

'I'm just foolin' ya', man. I don't know him. Just kinda sounds like what a Mack would look like. It's just something this girl I used to know taught me how to do.'

With a twitch of his eye, Don wondered what was going on. Steve had dug a cigarette out from somewhere and was lighting it on the edge of the candle that sat between them on the table. After taking a drag, he sat up and waggled his eyebrows at Don. His cheeks had grown pinker, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his brow. Don remembered distantly that both of them had skipped lunch, on account of the meeting.

'So, there's this girl I used to know, right? El. And she... she was really good at reading people, I guess is a way to say it. And she used to, she used to give these really vague descriptions and totally freak people out, it was hilarious. And scary. But mostly hilarious when it wasn't happening to you.'

Don just nodded. It was nice to see Steve like this. He was so much softer, his laughter bubbling out. For a moment, he could picture the kid he had once been in Hawkins. Loose and carefree, his shirt not buttoned up so high, his tie loosened from around his neck. Even his hair, gelled and sprayed, was hanging softly around his brow. Settling back in his chair, he took a drag of the cigarette and grabbed the ashtray. 

'She was a nice kid, El. It wasn't even her real name.'

'Elle?' Don repeated. 'What was it? Ellen?'

'No! No. It was Jane.'

'Jane?' Don felt like he was a parrot. Or maybe Steve, when he'd been shot a curly question while in the office. 'How do they get Elle from Jane?'

'It was- it was a nickname. It was a long story. A weird story. I dunno. Isn't it funny how nicknames get started? Like... one day you're Jane, and then suddenly you're El. Or you're name's Timothy and then you're, I dunno, _Mack,_ what is that?'

'People used to call me Dick.'

Don didn't mean to offer that information. It came slipping out, along with a few drops of whisky that he licked off his lower lip. He supposed, as he sat there, listening to the sound of his own voice in the air between them, that Steve couldn't do much with that information. He mightn't even remember it the following day, when he'd sobered up.

' _Dick_?' he repeated, incredulous and with a snort. With a barking laugh, his shoulders shook and he wiped at an eye with the back of his hand. 'Oh, man. And it's not just because you're an asshole, right?'

Laughing along with him, a little more subdued, Don just shook his head. Maybe he'd tell the story of how he lost Dick if Steve decided to remember how Jane became El. Steve gave a hiccup and held the cigarette between his teeth.

'People call me Steve, 'cause my name's Steve.'

That was what set Don off. The way Steve raised his eyebrow, the cigarette bouncing about as he drawled the words in his smooth, midwestern accent. It was a simple line, and Don likely wouldn't even find it amusing if he were more sober, but it hit something inside of him just right and he began to laugh. 

'So- so, my girlfriend, everyone knew her by one name, right?' Steve went on, setting his glass down and resting his cigarette on the ashtray. 'Like, everyone. We all called her the same thing. Me, her mom, her teachers. Anyway, I was at this- this thing a few years back. About, uh, three years ago now. And I'm looking around, and it's dead quiet. Really serious event.'

'Uh-huh,' Don nodded, encouraging him along.

'And I look around, and I'm in this suit and tie, right, I'm at the back of the crowd. And I'm reading this handout, and it says Anastasia Marie Wheeler. And I'm just- I turned to my buddy, Dustin,' Steve continued, turning in his seat as though his friend was next to him. 'And I said really loud, “who the _fuck_ is Anastasia?”'

He spoke loudly enough that Don had to lean over and hush him, as a few patrons turned to gander at them. The effort was dwindled, though, by his own snickering. Steve's laughter was contagious, particularly when he looked over at Don and shot him a toothy, cheeky grin.

'That's what Dustin did, too!' Steve cried out, pointing at Don. 'And her mom, she was glaring at me _so_ bad, holy shit. I thought I was going to die. If she had a gun, I'd've been shot. And I'm just going, “who the fuck is Anastasia?”, and- and her boyfriend, he was named after his dad. His middle name, I mean. And I'm going, “who the fuck is Alonzo?” Like, Anastasia? _Alonzo_? I don't know these people! They're not Anastasia and Alonzo, man. So I'm there, and everyone was crying, and Dustin, he's crying and laughing, and eventually, I got dragged out by the real Alonzo.'

Don was falling back in his seat, a hand over his chest as Steve re-enacted the event. He could picture the kid, done up in a suit and tie at his high school sweetheart's wedding, flipping out over the people he'd once known. Steve was spinning around, speaking at a chair that was meant to be his friend, while he gestured off in the distance and pretended to be hauled out. When he collapsed back in his seat, he grabbed the cigarette from the ashtray, took a drag and shrugged.

'That ever happen to you?'

With his shoulders still shaking, Don grinned and shook his head. 'No. No. Definitely not.'

'Eighteen years,' Steve said, pointing at Don with a cigarette. 'Eighteen years, and her name was fucking Anastasia. The Romanovs have nothing on her, I swear.'

With a firm nod, Steve settled back, his laughter petering out. Don sighed, wiped the tears from his eyes, and gestured at the waitress for another round. As he set his empty glass on the table, Don watched as the smile faded from the corners of Steve's lips, his eyes falling down to the table. There was a twitch in his expression as ran his fingers along the side of his glass and shrugged.

'Are they the ones you have a photo of on your desk?'

Steve nodded. Tossing back the dregs of his drink, he nodded in thanks as the waitress set fresh glasses down. Don noticed how the smile didn't quite reach his eyes; there was something there that he wasn't saying, something that had been left untouched. As much as he wanted to pry, though, he bit his tongue and held it up for a toast. It seemed strange, that he'd continue to keep a photo of the pair of them on his desk, but he tried not to question it. Small town relationships could be peculiar.

'Well, you can go and tell them your first meeting was a success.'

There it was again, another strange twitch in Steve's expression. He leant back in his seat, his fingers running through his hair as he rested the cocktail glass on his knee. His drink, pink and fizzy, lapped at the sides of the glass as he smiled and shrugged.

'Yeah. They'll be so happy to hear it.'

Don wanted to pry. There was a thread to follow there, something pushing at the edges. Before he could, Steve raised the drink to his lips and swallowed it down, catching the straw before it could fall out. Impressed and mildly horrified, Don took his time sipping his last drink for the evening. Well, his last drink before his nightcap.

'I think I should head off, Mister Draper,' Steve said, setting his glass down heavily. He went to stand and swayed, a hand gripping the side of the chair.

'I'll grab a cab with you.'

'No- ' Steve shook his head. 'It's out of your way. I'd- thank you, but no.'

Don hesitated. The smile had gone completely, Steve's jovial mood having disappeared as quickly as the bubbles in his champagne-based cocktail. Although he hadn't struck Don as being a melancholy drunk, he was beginning to wonder if the layers of pomade in his hair, the novelty neckties and wide smiles didn't hide something else.

'Well... here- ' Reaching into his wallet, Don handed over a dollar. 'For the cab.'

With a breath, Steve eyed the note. Finally, he nodded, took it, and thanked Don. Collecting his jacket, he folded it over his arm and slid the note into his pocket. He left with his head down, a slight wobble in his step as he made his way out of the bar.

*

Steve was out at lunch. Some of the girls had dragged him along to their usual Thursday lunch, which Don assumed had more similarity with a stitch-and-bitch than an actual meal. Something about Steve's affable nature and the fact he was easy on the eyes and leant himself to being a welcome, albeit token male, guest. It was nice to see Steve settling into the office, even if he would still be gone come the fall.

The folio for the Diana's account was somewhere on Steve's desk. The kid typically kept it spotless, but Don had handed him several accounts worth of notes that morning, and Steve had been carefully typing each one up. The Diana's account was somewhere in here, and he just had to find it. Picking out each of the folders and sheets of paper that Don had scribbled ideas down at one point or another, he found his eyes lifting up to the photo frame that sat upon Steve's desk. 

Anastasia and Lorenzo. Don tried to picture finding out his two best friends didn't actually hold the names he had known them by for all those years. Setting down one of the folders, he took hold of the picture frame instead. The back creaked as he lifted it up, peering at the smiling couple through the fingerprint-riddled glass. He could almost picture the mother of the bride shooting glares at Steve, the father of the groom trying to wrangle him out of the ceremony. Maybe the couple had laughed about it with Steve later. 

It was a strange image to keep on his desk. He didn't think anyone else had pictures of friends on their desk. Though, now that Don remembered it, Steve had called her his girlfriend, and the other guy her boyfriend. It was a strange thing to say, but had likely been a slip of the tongue. Shaking his head, the idea was chased from his mind at the sound of a conversation being launched in his direction.

'Do you have five minutes?'

Lifting his eyes to Roger, Don set the frame down. 'No.'

'Great. Make them.'

Without stopping, Roger continued straight through to his office. Taking one of the files that Steve had finished typing up (Maytag, which would do for now), Don held the folder up at proof and gave it a small wave. Before he left, he scrawled a quick note to Steve.

_Taken Maytag._  
_Thanks,_  
_D.D._

'You know some people actually ask and wait for an answer first,' Don drawled as he set the note down on Steve's desk and followed Roger into his office.

Roger was already in the midst of pouring himself a drink. Turning to look over his shoulder, he screwed up his nose, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

'Really?' he remarked. 'Always seemed a waste of time. So, I spoke to the team over in Washington- '

With a heavy sigh, Don shook his head and shut the door behind him with a small push. A couple of fingers of whisky were offered in his direction, which he took, as well as a seat to sit down on. Tossing his ankle over his knee, he decided to just sit there and listen to Roger's latest decisions in regards to the newest potential account. Don was still telling himself he might not be forced onto the account yet, and that Roger was just tossing ideas out into the ether. There was still a tiny wisp of a chance it could be true.

'They want to meet some of the team.'

And there went his hopes. With a heavy sigh, he tossed back a mouthful of his drink and let the burn slide down his throat.

'When are they coming up again?' he asked with a slight wheeze.

'They're not. They went us to head down.'

'To Washington?'

Roger nodded. The whisky suddenly wasn't strong enough.

'When?' he choked out.

'Next month.'

Don tried not to flinch too much. If he did, Roger either didn't see it or he chose to ignore it. The only thing worse than being shoved into a meeting with them up here was being forcibly dragged down there. He couldn't just refuse. Scratching the top of his brow, busying himself with another sip of his whisky, he pretended to turn it over. Maybe he could fake an illness. Say Sally had appendicitis. Maybe he'd go so far as to take his paperweight and crush his own hand.

'Sure,' he found himself saying instead 'Sounds good.'

Did Pete still have that gun? Maybe he could ask Steve to take it and shoot him a little. A minor graze. Flesh wounds always bled the worst. 

Don couldn't recall the rest of the conversation. He was reeling, his mind racing as he found himself nodding and trying to be agreeable to whatever Roger was going on about. The sound of his voice was distant and came from the back of his throat as he sat there, chewing it all over. If he couldn't get out of going, then he needed an excuse while he was in Washington. This wasn't the sort of trip where he could just up and leave halfway through like he could in California. There would be consequences.

There would also be consequences if he stayed, though. He'd need a reason to disappear. A valid one.

'Diana's loved Steve,' he said suddenly, setting his empty glass down on the table. 

Roger took a moment to digest what had been said. Steve watched as his eyes darted to the door and then back to him.

'Really?'

Don nodded. 'Maybe I can take him along. He definitely has a knack when it comes to talking to people.'

God, he hoped Roger wasn't go to ask him to elaborate. All he could pull out right then was that Steve was friendly and amenable and knew how to tell a story while he was drunk.

There was a twitch in Roger's expression. Don watched it, straightened his back, and made a cursory wave with his hand. 

'He wants to be an accounts man. What better way to see if it's for him?' he said, feigning a casual air. 'I bet Joan would approve.'

' _That's_ pushing it,' Roger said, as he stood up. 

There wasn't any further argument, though. As Roger made his leave, Don began to run potential excuses through his head. A bout of appendicitis instead of Sally, maybe a twisted ankle. Something that wasn't entirely Steve's fault, but would require Don to also make a leave of absence. Maybe they could time it just right so they wouldn't even need to get on a plane.

*

Although he was sure Steve would be thrilled to be invited on an out-of-state trip, no matter the role he was to play, Don still felt it was in his best interest to try and woo him over to it all the same. Coming up with a reason why was about as tricky as trying to figure out an excuse that would give him an excuse to not go to the meeting. Running his tongue over the roof of his mouth, Don turned the possible reasons over in his head and tried to find one. While typically he didn't need an excuse to booze up with his secretary, Steve was a bit trickier. 

As it turned out, fate had a ready-made excuse for him. The following morning, Steve came into the office beaming. Don watched him from his desk as Steve hummed to himself, fussing with the photo frame on his desk as he sat down. When he stepped from his office, Steve tried to smother the smile, but it couldn't be budged. He wondered what the news was, and from the way Steve had been fussing with the frame, he wondered if the couple had announced they were expecting.

'I got a ninety-five on my Spanish midterm,' Steve announced when asked. Then, as he screwed up his nose, 'midterm? Midsummer? We had a test and I did really well.'

There it was, a perfect excuse wrapped up in Steve's chipper attitude. Smiling to himself, Don clapped his hands together just once. Often, he'd bring a hand down on his secretary's shoulder at the sign of good news, but he couldn't quite do that with Steve.

'Congratulations,' he said, leaning against the door frame as casually as he could. 'You deserve it. Let me take you out for a drink tonight for celebration. Unless you'd like to call your friends and tell them...?'

Steve's eyes tracked to the photo. For a breath, Don wondered if he was going to turn down the offer. That wasn't completely awful – a rain check would also suffice. But Steve cocked his head to the side, his teeth grazing over his lower lip, before he looked back up at Don and nodded.

'No, I'd love to come,' he announced. 'Thank you.'

That was warming. Don was actually surprised with how pleased he was to hear that. It was just a drink, nothing else. Being all alone in New York had to be difficult, though, especially when receiving grand news like that. Don had never been to college (he'd barely even finished his education, and by some standards, he actually hadn't), but he knew how important it was. He'd see Sally come home from school, gleeful over a good mark on a test that didn't seem all that important to him before, and he'd feel a shred of understanding. 

As the day passed and the end of the day roared up, Don managed to corral Steve away from his desk. The bar he had in mind was one he didn't normally frequent himself, but Pete and Ken both liked to take clients there. There were burlesque dancers on the weekends, which he and Steve would unfortunately miss, but the band was always lively and Don had even caught Etta James performing their a few years back. Even Betty hadn't been able to voice her usual criticisms over the pipes on that woman.

The waitress recognised him when he arrived with Steve, who had blathered the whole way about how thrilled he was. Their last visit to a bar had clearly left an impression on him, and Don couldn't help but wonder what he'd told his friends. Any chance of asking as such, or even getting a question in edgewise, was quickly washed away when Steve launched into another spiel. It was like he had been bursting with a need to talk to others and Don had finally turned the faucet. 

As the alcohol began to loosen their tongues more freely, Don wondered when he was going to have a chance to bring up his plan for inviting him down to Washington and then trying to skip the meeting. He couldn't quite figure out the best way to bring it up, though, and Steve kept jumping from topic to topic. Being out of the office seemed to have freed him up.

Picking out a coins from his wallet, Steve grinned at Don and looked around. His eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy store. This wasn't the like the usual bars that most kids Steve's age went to. There wasn't a sorority sister or co-ed around. The music was slower, suits and ties were preferred over jeans and a t-shirt, and the beverage of choice were cocktails over beer. Something about Steve had fit right in, though, and Don suspected it wasn't just his presence. He imagined throwing Steve in here and asking him to walk out with three potential clients, and Steve would have found a way to do it. 

'This place is great. Thanks for inviting me. Everything's so fancy.'

Don squinted at him and cocked his head to the side. 'Joan told me your family's well off. You've never been to a bar like this?'

Steve's eye twitched slightly and he gave a rude snort. 'Yeah, well off for Hawkins. I'm a college kid living in New York City during the summer. I live in a crummy apartment in the Bronx and I catch the train in everyday.'

That surprised him a little. Although Steve was always on time, he sometimes heard him remarking to other staff in the office about the train being packed or late or other similar commuter grumbles in the break room. He'd never known just where Steve lived exactly, and hearing that he was living in the Bronx was definitely a shock. It made him wonder why his friends from back home hadn't come with him; if Steve was struggling to make his way in New York and was from a well off family, maybe his friends really hadn't been able to afford to come.

'So, if he want another drink, how does this happen? Do we go to the bar?'

Don laughed and shook his head. Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled out his packet of Lucky Strikes, dug out two cigarettes and passed one to Steve. The kid took it obediently, even lighting it expertly when Don tossed the lighter to him. 

The waitress came over before either of them had managed to take a drag. Don ordered his typical Old Fashioned, while Steve ordered something he called a New York Sour, before adding in his usual, earnest fashion, 'd'you know how to make that?'. The waitress, polite as always, smiled and said she'd pass it onto the bartender. Steve was a perpetual flirt in the office, although it was always covered in sugar, and while it appeared that trait carried on outside the four walls of Sterling Cooper, it seemed like it didn't quite work on women who encountered far more suave men.

He was beautiful. It was a problem. His long lashes and soft lips would have been better suited for a girl. It occurred to Don, as Steve laughed and rested his hand on his cheek, that he wasn't just flirting with women. He was flirting with Don, too. Steve would look back and smile at him, with that same, toothy grin he'd throw at women in the office, as though seeking approval. As their drinks were bought back to them on a tray, he mulled it over, thanking the waitress with a tip. Steve was a bit of an attention seeker, with how he moved and chatted at the office. He'd listen and nod, seemingly enraptured by the other secretaries. It was the same behaviour that was directed solely at Don now.

It caused him to pause, drink partly raised to his mouth, as he watched Steve raised the tumbler that had been handed to him to his lips. It was filled with an amber liquid, topped with a deep red, garnished with an orange slice and a single cherry. He took a cautious sip of it. Don couldn't help but watch as his lips rested on the rim of the glass, the red wine that had been splashed on top staining them like a gloss. 

'Oh, that's strong,' Steve wheezed as he started to cough.

Laughing, Don shook his head and set his own glass down, the taste of whisky still on his lips. With a smile, he watched as Steve took another sip, apparently unperturbed by the taste of it. His eyes widened a little as he cleared his throat, trying to pretend as though he wasn't put off by it.

'You've never had one before, have you?' Don asked with a laugh. Given their first trip to a bar, it was clear Steve tended stick to fruitier drinks that was as sweet as he was.

Steve took a drag of his cigarette and cleared his throat. He considered the question and obviously thought about telling a lie before he sheepishly shook his head.

'I overheard Harry Crane talking about them. He said everyone in Hollywood drinks them.'

'Harry's full of shit,' Don said simply. He took the glass and had a sip, his nose wrinkling up. 'God, that's awful. Don't drink this, it's bad for you. Besides, how old are you? Are you even meant to be drinking?'

There was an almost imperceptible twitch between Steve's brows. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards and he darted his eyes to the bar again.

'The drinking age is eighteen here,' he finally said, bypassing the question. 'You let me drink last time.'

'You're from Indiana, right?'

Steve darted his eyes back to Don. 'So what?'

'Yeah, the age is twenty-one there. You're not having this. It's awful, anyway. Waitress?' he called, snapping his fingers at the waitress who was finishing up with another table.

'That's bullshit!' Steve said with a laugh, scoffing at Don's attempt to control him. 'We're not in Indiana. You can't- what're you doing- _last_ time- '

'To hell with last time. Another one of these for myself, and he'll have a Shirley Temple,' he said, holding up his Old Fashioned as the waitress smiled and nodded.

'A- a Shir- oh my God, you're such a dick!'

Steve was laughing, though, even when his New York Sour was taken away. It was good to see him laugh. He seemed perpetually wound up around Don, a nervous energy wafting from him. Sometimes Don would hear him laughing with the other secretaries, trading barbs and smiles, even with the older and occasionally less attractive girls. But with Don, he seemed to consistently walk on a razor's edge, minding his ps and qs. He wondered if it were a remnant of his history with his father or other older male figure in his life. Maybe that approval-seeking private joe mannerism had actually been built from something similar to the military. 

Whether it was the cocktail that had done it, or Don's gentle ribbing, Steve began to relax. He smiled and chatted about whatever popped into his mind, just as when they'd entered the bar. The classes Steve was taking next term, how he was enjoying living in the Bronx, what it was like moving from a small town to New York. Steve told him about the high school basketball team he used to play on, and how he missed it and how the college he went to didn't really have anything casual like that. Don sat and listened; Steve talked about the events that happened around him, but he spoke very little about himself.

Half an hour in and two Shirley Temples down, Steve excused himself and went to the bathroom. He dug a couple of coins out from his wallet to take with him for the restroom assistant. With a nod and a raise of his glass, Don watched him go. His wallet, a soft and supple leather that had likely been bought for him by his father remained on the table. Don knew better than to look- heaven only knew what people would think of him if they looked through his own. But it had fallen open, and next to Steve's out of state driver's license and library cards to his college library along with two in New York City, was a series of photos. They were held together in an accordion holder that fell out, four sheets that were filled front and back.

Don picked it up. Lifting it up, he looked over the eight photos. The first was of Steve with a young boy with thick curly hair, a cap crammed on top of his head. Steve looked younger, too. He must have been in high school. A second photo was of a pair of kids, a boy and a girl, somewhere around Sally's age. They were dressed up and awkwardly positioned next to each other, both uncertain about having their photo taken. A third, again of Steve and this time with a girl with a shock of red hair. He had her by the ankles and she was dangling upside down, laughing as she tried to keep her shirt tucked in. The last photo was a whole bunch of kids, some of them recognisable from the other photos. 

The alternate side was simply of Steve with the same boy and girl that he had a photo of on his desk. In every photo, the three of them were pressed up together, as though trying to remove any gap that might have been there. In one, Steve had the two of them balanced on his lap. It seemed like an outtake of the photo that sat upon his desk. In another, which looked carefully posed, they were at prom or some equivalent that Hawkins had. The girl was in pink, the boy in yellow. Steve was squished between them, a hint of orange from his shirt. There was a candid shot of the three of them laughing, and the last of them with their heads bowed in careful conversation while on a couch. The colours they wore blended together to become some kind of strange, hazy sunset, not unlike the prom photo.

Steve returned as he was looking it over. Lifting his head to find him just a few feet away, Don didn't bother to apologise. He just nodded, thanked the waitress when she set their newest drinks down, and replace the stream of photos on Steve's wallet.

'These are good,' he said, sipping his third drink. 'You a photographer?'

Steve's face was blank. Impassive. Licking his lips, he waited until the waitress stepped away. He smiled, nodded at her, and then eased his way into his seat again. Don watched him as he took a breath, a hand hovering over his wallet. Whatever joviality had existed before had been snuffed out. Tucking the end of the photo holder back into his wallet, he folded it back up and went to slide it into his jacket pocket.

'No. My- the um... _he_ took most of them.'

'Who?'

'Uh- ' Steve took a sip of his drink, more than likely to buy time than to quench his thirst. 'The guy on my desk. With the girl. He's the one who made me want to come to New York. These photos are all really old.'

'You want to talk about them?'

Steve's eyes darted up to him. He looked suspicious. No, it wasn't just that. He was wary. His eyes lifted from Don as he took a breath and ran his eyes around the room. A small hissing noise came from him as he lifted the straw to his mouth and took a cautious sip from his drink again. Despite the fact that it was nothing but soda and juice, he seemed to be enjoying it. His lips, soft and pink and stained with grenadine wrapped around the solitary black straw as he slurped his drink and continued to look about. Don took his own drink and tapped at the side of the glass. The high clicking was almost audible over the rock-and-roll the band was playing.

'They're just kids from back in Hawkins,' he finally said.

'Who are they?'

With a shrug, Steve's lip twitched and he mixed his mocktail about with the straw. The ice crunched as he ran it over and under.

'Just kids I babysat.' 

'Teenagers need a babysitter?' Don asked incredulously.

With a tired, almost languid smile, he turned to Don again and gave him a steady look. 'Sometimes.'

There was a strange look in Steve's eyes. Don couldn't quite place what it was, though he was sure he'd seen it before. Not necessarily in Steve's eye, but in the eye of soldiers returned from war. Occasionally, he'd sit with veterans on particular dates when he was forced to, and in some of their faces, he'd find that same expression. Hell, there were times when he'd wake up in the morning, after a night of restless sleeping and melancholic drinking, and he'd find it in the mirror, looking back at him. Steve was too young to have served in Vietnam yet, but he was jittery. Haunted. Don couldn't fathom how Steve could have developed a look like that given his age and the small town he had come from.

At some point the band had grown louder, the conversation around them had turned into a dull roar, and Don could feel his pulse beating in his temples. Steve had changed the subject (or maybe Don had asked, he couldn't quite remember), and was talking about basketball again. He used to play point guard back home, but if he ever played a game now, he was a small forward. Neither of those things made a lick of sense to Don, but he nodded and smiled, much the way he would with a pretty girl who told him all about her dancing days way back when. He liked the rhythm of Steve's voice, the sharp accent on some words, the emphasis on the vowels. It reminded him of home, and he wondered if Hawkins was close to the Illinois border and if Steve had ever gone to Chicago.

Steve really was beautiful. It was distracting. He'd thought that before, at some point, hadn't he? Don could see him talking, but his voice sounded distant and echoed, like he was listening from underwater. The words would wash over him, ebbing and flowing like waves. He knew he was meant to ask another question, but he couldn't figure out what it had meant to be. Swaying to and fro, he tried to pay attention, but he couldn't. It all slipped through his fingers. 

Steve noticed.

'Okay, Mister Draper, I think it's time we call it a night.'

Nodding, Don put a hand down to push himself up. He stood up and the room moved with him. Clutching the back of his chair, he gave a small noise of surprise, his eyes widen as he swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up. The whisky had been far stronger than he'd expected, and he was sure there was a period when he'd been trying to meet Steve drink for drink, forgetting that the kid had been drinking little more than soda and juice. Maybe the bar had even added a splash of bitters to give him a buzz. Shutting his eyes for a second, Don took a breath to steady himself through his nose and cleared his throat. To his right, he could sense Steve approaching. Even so, it still took him a moment to collect himself when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and another clapping him on the back.

'Come on, Mister Draper. I'll walk you to the train.’

He could walk. Hell, he'd driven while feeling worse. But somehow, he'd found himself pressed against Steve with an arm curled around his middle. The kid was warm; Don could feel his body heat, even under through his shirt as he was led out into the humid New York street. Although it was probably a bit much, given it was the middle of summer, Don didn't want to fight it. It had been a while since he'd been this close to another person, and Betty had been frostier than normal in recent weeks. She could have been the start of winter with a little more effort. While it would have been perfectly fine for him to pull away, he decided to stay close.

'When's your birthday?' Don found himself asking.

'September twenty-first.'

'Huh.'

He'd be back in college back then and Don would be onto his next ad campaign. That's how these things worked. It was how these things always worked. Nobody stayed in Don's life for long.

The station was close to the bar. Then again, a lot of things were close by in New York. It was why he loved it so much. It was the exact opposite to what he grew up in, where the roads went on and the nearest house was a seven-minute run if he went at full pelt. Maybe Hawkins was like that.

He wanted to ask what the most exciting thing about Hawkins was. What were the attractions? What were the haunted buildings? Did he miss home?

They entered the station, Steve still tucked around him. It was quiet, which was strange for New York. It wasn't strange enough for Don to say anything, though, as Steve guided him down to the subway. There was a panhandler and a couple of men sleeping against the wall. A man and woman were wrapped around one another, lost in their embrace. Don eyed them, envious, until he tuned back into Steve who had, at some point, begun to adjust his shirt so it was smooth. 

'Should I call Mrs Draper and have her pick you up from the station?'

'No. She'll be sleeping. I'll be fine when I get off. Get home.'

'Okay, good. Well, I'll see you Mon- '

'Do you miss them?'

Steve stopped. His lips parted slightly as he looked up at him, wide-eyed and the picture of innocence. The haunted expression had gone, but even now, wariness tinged the edges.

'I'm sorry?'

'Do you miss them?' Don repeated. 'Your friends from Hawkins.'

'Oh,' Steve murmured. 'I thought that's what you said.'

He didn't reply. The corners of his mouth twitched as he took a couple of steps away from the staircase and to one of the pillars. Don let him take a few steps away before he followed, a hand out reached to run over the concrete column, watching as Steve pressed up against it. He gazed down the tunnel, waiting for the train that Don would soon be getting on. It was humid down here, and he could feel his shirt sticking to him, sweat accumulating under his arms and at the small of his back.

His eyes were heavy lidded. When he lowered his gaze to the filthy ground, his lashes danced over his cheeks. A flash of his tongue ran over his lips, soft and pink and wet. The freckles on his jaw stood out in the flickering light, his skin slightly flushed from the heat down here.

'Yeah. Yeah, I do,' he finally murmured.

Don kissed him. He couldn't remember doing it, but he must have. It was the perfect opportunity to do it. If Steve were a girl, he wouldn't have thought twice, and he was drunk enough that he didn't now. It was insane and stupid and Don knew he shouldn't be doing it. But Steve's lips were soft and against his, and he was sure he could feel him beginning to respond, just a little as Don sucked at his lower lip. He could taste the sweetness of the beverages Steve had had, the taste of a cigarette that had been smoked an hour before. He wanted to drink him in and feel him, pressed against his body. If they were alone, Don may have even dared it.

All it took, though, was a hand upon his forearm and fingers around his shoulder to make him step back. Swaying slightly, he batted his eyes open. Steve was looking up at him, mildly started. An apology was necessary here. He just needed to figure out how to give one.

'Your train, Mister Draper,' Steve said gently.

With a push to his shoulder, Don nodded his head. He had left his briefcase at the office. He'd pick it up in the morning. It was the weekend, but he could come in. Maybe.

Nodding his head once more, he made his way to the train. Even as he crossed the threshold, he could still feel Steve's fingers around his arm, and he couldn't tell if they were holding him close or pushing him away. He forgot to look back to ask.

*

Don told himself it was a drunken hallucination. They happened. His imagination would run wild and he'd think he was back in Illinois or Pennsylvania. He'd be at work or he'd be at home or he'd be anywhere then where he actually was. The best ideas would pop into his head, and he'd race to write them down, only to look in the morning and find some illegible scrawl that only said HENHOUSE or TRAIN STOP or THREE DOGS TOGETHER or something that equally didn't make any sense. That was what had happened that night. Don thought something had happened, but it actually hadn't been like that. He woke up the following morning to find STOP RUN GO written on the back of a business card the next day.

It had happened before. It would happen again.

Steve never mentioned it, either, which furthered Don's doctored belief that that-which-should-not-be-said never happened. There he was, bright and early the following Monday morning (Don supposed, seeing as he didn't arrive until past ten), with a smile on his lips and a cup of coffee at the ready. He stood when Don arrived, held out the white cup that contained coffee far darker than what Don was used to but appreciated, given his hangover, and handed him his notes for the day without a word. Don was mostly grateful for the last part, as he was suffering a headache that his aspirin weren't touching. Hair of the dog had lasted most of the weekend. 

The silence about Friday night continued on for the rest of the hangover and the rest of the day. Nothing was said about it the following morning, nor the day after that. If he actually had kissed Steve, then he reasoned that it would have been brought up by now. Hell, he figured Steve might not even be able to look him in the eye. But the kid brought him coffee each morning, delivered his messages on time, and wished him a good night before he left each evening. It had to have just been some drunken fever dream.

The rest of the week passed, and Monday rolled around again. Don still hadn't asked him about the trip to Washington DC. It was beginning to get difficult to even think about how he was going to do it. Technically it was still a confidential project, but Don had been given the approval to let Steve know about it. He hadn't even brought up the project, though. He'd sit at his desk and watch Steve work through the gap in the door. Whether it had been a drunken fantasy or not (and he was pretty sure it was just that, no matter how much it nagged on him), the kiss kept plaguing him.

It would be nice to invite him on the trip, though. The work he'd done on the Diana's account had helped them sign a three-year contract. Although it was only small, it opened up a new door for them. Pete, like Steve, seemed to believe that the Spanish and Mexican community was the way of the future and they should look more into getting in that market. The Diana's account was the first step there.

A conversation with Joan only solidified Don's decision to invite Steve along.

'You're family, right?' he asked over lunch at the diner, an unintentional run-in for both of them. 'Second cousins.'

'Twice removed.'

Don began to laugh and shook his head. 

'I need to admit,' he said, setting his Reuben sandwich down. 'I have no idea what that means.'

'It means it's a small town and I'm lucky to have got out,' Joan replied smoothly, smiling at him over her cup of coffee. 'We went to the same schools but at different times. We only ever saw each other on major holidays.'

It was difficult to picture both Joan and Steve years younger and encountering each other during an egg hunt or while exchanging Christmas gifts. It made him smile, and as he shook his head, Joan began to laugh to herself. 

'He hasn't changed. He's just as sweet as he was then. A one-horse town like that can eat people alive.'

'I was thinking of inviting him to Washington.'

Joan's eyebrows shot up at that. Don, with his cup of coffee raised to his lip, paused when he saw that expression. There was an expression on her face that he couldn't quite read. That in itself wasn't unusual. She often gave him looks he couldn't quite figure out, and this wasn't different. But it did make him pause and lower his cup, his head tilting to the side as he tried to figure out exactly what Joan was thinking.

'What?' he asked. 'Is there some vengeful ex-girlfriend who's getting into politics I should keep him away from?'

'No,' she replied, taking her spoon and stirring in another half-lump of sugar. 'Not as far as I'm aware. That's very sweet, I'm sure he'll appreciate it.'

There was enough distance in her voice for Don to hear that she actually didn't know all that much about what Steve did and didn't appreciate. There was a good age gap between them, at least thirteen or fourteen years. She may have even left for New York by the time Steve started middle school, if not sooner.

'Do you know what he was like in school?' he asked.

'What, like was he popular?'

Don shrugged. Leaning back in her seat, Joan took her cigarette, which had been wafting up from the ashtray and took a drag. She met a waitress' eyes behind Don's head and declined the offer of more coffee with a lazy dip of her hand.

'I didn't really keep up with the Christmas newsletters,' she drawled. 'But I do know everyone was quite pleased when he decided to go to college. He was a little lost when he finished school.'

Don could see that. As the weeks had turned into a month with change, Don had begun to learn there was something so very soft and sad about Steve. There was a desperate need for approval that had to have developed somewhere. Hell, Don sometimes felt like sometimes he had something like that himself, a desperate need to be liked and needed. Maybe it didn't go as deep as Steve's hunger, but it did exist there, in the hollows of his bones.

'He's done well,' he finally said, hoping that maybe word got back to the small town of Hawkins that Steve's new boss approved of him. 'Diana's loved him.'

'Of course they did. He's always impressed matriarchs.' 

There was a slight edge developing in Joan's voice. She took a drag of her cigarette that brought it to the end, which she crushed in the ashtray. Don only had a few more bites of his sandwich, and they'd be ready to head back up to the office. 

'You don't need to win me over if you're planning on inviting him anywhere,' Joan said as she dug through her pocketbook and laid a few coins on the table. 'If you want to take him on your boy's trip, ask him. He'll appreciate it more than you think.'

The charged advice remained in Don's head as he returned from lunch. The excuses he had been giving himself for not raising the topic with Steve were just that- _excuses_. Whether it was his alcohol-fused hallucination where he kissed Steve or some other inane idea that was equally implausible, he needed to get over it. His conversation with Joan continued to stick with him for the rest of the day. However, it turned into several days, as it tended to do, until the end of the week was upon him again and he was finalising the latest meeting with Pete about the Diana's account.

Strolling back from Pete's office, his mind awash with a whole range of Mexican delights, Don didn't immediately notice that Steve wasn't at his desk. He was too caught up the differences between enchiladas and quesadillas to take note of the empty desk until he was only a few feet away. His office door was ajar, though, which again didn't strike him as odd as he pushed it open. Even seeing Steve standing there in front of his desk wasn't all that peculiar. As his secretary, it was Steve's job to leave him memos and typed up letters for all his accounts. What was unusual, after all of that, was how Steve yelped when Don uttered his name, ready to ask if he could make him a coffee.

Steve flung around, falling against Don's desk as he looked at him. 

'No!'

The single yelp startled even Don. With wide eyes, Steve sucked in a breath and began to stammer out an apology. Confused, Don had no idea what the hell he was going on about until he saw the folder open on his desk. In each corner of the pages Steve was reading was a stamped _CONFIDENTIAL_ in bold, red ink. With a pale face, Steve took another audible breath and watched as Don shut the door. With every trace of Mexican foods shoved from his mind, Don tried to bite back his default action at laying into Steve. The kid looked like he'd seen a ghost; it probably served him right for being caught in the act when reading the Department of Energy folder.

'I didn't- I thought- ‘ Steve started, clearly unsure where to go.

'Come on,’ Don drawled as he slammed the door shut. 'Out with your excuse. I can't wait to hear it.’

Steve visibly winced. His eyes darted to the shut door, then back at Don. This would have been a perfect opportunity for Don to explain that he was going to be inviting him to Washington, but the audacity of Steve having actually gone through his confidential documents had him rattled more. 

'There was a call and- and I was trying to place it with the right, the right, um, the right- the Department of Energy?'

This was why the kiss couldn't have happened, Don decided. If it had, Steve would have been as caught and stuck after it as he currently was. Now that that thought had entered his head, though, he found it impossible to shake as Steve began to bundle all the pages back into the folder. Several refused to go back in and he began to huff in annoyance. Don stepped forward to stop him and calm him down when the pages spilled out and fluttered to the floor. Steve cursed loudly and dropped down to his knees, apologising profusely as he knelt in front of Don and tried to pick everything up as quickly as possible.

'Steve- '

That position had always been something Don had appreciated. A beautiful woman on all fours, her back arched and ass in the air, while she fussed with something on the ground by Don's feet. Seeing Steve in that exact position was a little different, and yet it was having the same effect. Standing there stunned, Don took a moment to take in a breath. He wasn't like _that_ , and he was pretty sure Steve wasn't, either. Sure, there had been that one time Don had given another soldier a handjob while he was in the army, but that was the army. Guys got desperate. And this wasn't the army, this was his office, and Steve kept looking up at him with wide eyes until he had all the pieces of paper back together. The folder was completely out of order and spilling open when he pushed himself back to his feet. Slamming it on Don's desk, Steve apologised again hurriedly stormed out, fumbling with the doorknob as he went.

Don wanted to be angry. He _was_ angry, on some level. Steve shouldn't have been poking through his things, particularly those marked _CONFIDENTIAL_ in bright red lettering. It didn't matter if Don was going to invite him on the trip or not, he still shouldn't have gone through it. And yet, as he began to flick through it himself and try to put everything back in order, he found himself willing the anger to go, to soothe, to force it down. The night at the bar was pushing at the corners of his mind, the train station poking holes through the barrier of his drunken haze as memories began to tease back in, and he found the anger being released. He was in trouble.

*

Don could have reported it to Roger. He probably should have. By going through his confidential documents, no matter Don's intentions to eventually invite him, it proved he was untrustworthy. Higher-standing account executives had lost their job for far more minor transgressions. 

But Don didn't tell Roger. He didn't raise the topic with anyone. Steve left work early that day, and Don provided an excuse when other staff asked about him. If Steve was a little sulky over the next day, then Don ignored it. He was the one to bring the coffees (from the diner down the road), and even attempted an admittedly bad joke that Sally had told him that morning. The corner of Steve's mouth twitched, but he didn't quite look Don in the eye. Another day, he found an advertisement for a pink-and-blue tie in a magazine. He tore it out and left it on Steve's desk.

_Thought you might like this._  
_Thanks,_  
_D.D._

It wasn't until the start of the following week that the gap between them finally started to close.

'Mister Draper.'

Don paused. Lifting his head, he looked over his shoulder at the door. There, standing quietly and uncertainly, as though he wasn't sure if he was allowed to fill the space he occupied, was the kid. It was strange how that word came flooding back to Don in that moment. It wasn't his name; Don now thought of him as Steve more often than not. But the person in front of him wasn't bright or full of life the way Steve was. He wasn't big enough to take up ownership of the name Steve Harrington. It was just the kid. He was just the kid. Quiet and awkward, his hands clasped together as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Don had never seen him look like that since he'd started working at Sterling Cooper. Guilt rush him before he could stop it, bitter and unwelcome.

'Steve,' he said, because he couldn't just call him _the kid_ to his face. 'Come in.'

He did, obedient and silent. He even shut the door behind him, closing it with an ever-so-soft click as he pressed his hand to the frame. He sighed, and Don watched as he closed his eyes, his head bowing forward.

'If this is about you seeing the contract- '

'It isn't,' Steve said, cutting him off abruptly. 'Not in the way you think.'

'I'm not mad,' Don continued. 'You shouldn't have done it, but I'm not mad.'

Steve took two steps to the desk. He wound his way over, making it seem like the journey was three times as long as it really was. By the time he reached the chair and sank down into it, Don was ready for him to just blurt out whatever was on his mind.

He hoped it wasn't about their night out at the bar. That was a discussion Don was happy not to have. They had gone this long without bringing it up. He also didn't want Steve to think he had been deliberately keeping the trip to Washington DC from him. Secretaries could be so funny about things like that, as though they assumed they were equally entitled to a trip away. Although the work itself was confidential, Steve was also his secretary; he was bound to have seen something compromising eventually. Don was almost glad it was this and not him with his pants around his ankles. Given the way Steve seemed to look at him like a private to a lieutenant, Don was sure catching him in the act like that would crush more than a few idealised ideas. It had happened before, with wide-eyed secretaries having their misplaced hero worship destroyed right before their eyes.

Steve wasn't so easily swayed, though. With a furrowed brow, he pursed his lips and drew in a sharp breath through his nose.

'Have you ever...' he started. Stopping abruptly, Steve shook his head. 'What do you do when you're working on a job that you know is unethical?'

'Unethical?'

Steve nodded. 'Like... if you know something was dangerous or harmful. If something you were advertising could actually hurt someone.'

The question wasn't what Don was expecting. His eyes fell to the drawer where the government contract was safely locked away, the plans for the initial campaign already set out. Shifting in his own seat, Don ran his thumb along the edge of the desk, towards his Shaeffer pen, as well as his typical crushed packet of cigarettes and lighter. His fingers itched to pick one up and light it, the tobacco and nicotine craving striking through him. Steve's question also ran through him as he curled his fingers into his palm and swallowed the urge. Something about setting a good example for those younger than him went through his head.

'We advertise cigarettes,' he said instead, gesturing to the Lucky Strikes he'd been looking at. 'We have the cancer council breathing down or necks. Government legislation. Growing public perception.'

Steve seemed unconvinced. His lips remained pursed in a tight line as he watched Don play with the packet of cigarettes.

'So why do you do it?'

'Because we get paid.'

That caused Steve to dart his eyes up. The answer clearly utterly unimpressed him.

'You get paid? That's it?' he shot at Don, almost droll. 'That's what helps you sleep at night?'

Although Steve's tone of voice was sharp and angry, Don found himself unable to rise to the bait. The frustration seeping from Steve seemed to be unconnected to the Lucky Strike account. He was asking a philosophical question and Don didn't have an accurate answer. His entire life was about swallowing guilt and learning to move on, when countless others would be unable to. This wasn't something he'd be able to teach Steve, but something the kid would have to learn.

Rubbing his eye, Don took a deep breath. Holding it, he counted back from five and opened up the drawer where the manilla folder had been stored since he caught Steve with it. Pulling it out, he flicked it open and looked over all the notes. He knew nothing had been taken or altered in anyway, and he hadn't expected Steve to do such a thing. He couldn't even begin to fathom why this topic had effected him so much. Steve didn't seem to be overtly political.

'They have invited us down to DC for a presentation,' he said, deciding to change the topic. He opened up to the page with the details and pulled out the leaflet.

'And you're going?' Steve spat out, a sneer on his lips. He sounded so disgusted that Don almost didn't recognise his voice.

'Unfortunately,' Don admitted. 'And I was going to invite you to come along.'

'What? _Why_?'

Don shifted in his seat behind his desk. The slow motion caused Steve to be thrown, his guard dropping. It was unexpected.

'Because I don't want to go. I don't want to be put on a government contract. They'll suspect something is up if I announce I'm attending and then don't appear, but if you come along and happen to fall ill...' Don waved his hand, letting Steve figure out the rest.

Suspicious and cautious, Steve took the leaflet when it was handed over. It contained the details of the invitation, along what was expected in the presentation. Sinking back in his chair, he looked up at Don through his lashes.

'Why don't you want to take on the account? If it involves getting paid,' he added bitterly.

'Because it's intrusive,' Don replied honestly. 'I value my privacy. I don't want to be investigated by a bunch of shadowy types just to make a slogan and declare how great their products are, whether I agree with them or not. I know cigarettes cause cancer... allegedly. I don't like Nixon. But neither of them are going to go through my children's reports or my wife's silk stockings just to see if I once spoke to a Russian expatriate in '42.'

Steve's expression softened at that, though he still seemed dubious.

'Look, we can go down. We'll get a nice hotel,' Don started. 'All on the company cheque book. Somewhere with a pool. They day of the meeting, I can call and say you developed appendicitis. You can go sightseeing, send some postcards to your friends. Fly back, say it was food poisoning and indigestion. People will be none the wiser.'

Steve didn't reply. Don sighed, reached into the drawer that was still opened, and pulled out his wallet.

'I'll give you ten dollars.'

'Twenty,' Steve replied automatically.

'Twen- ' Don spluttered. 'No, _ten_.'

'Twenty-five,' Steve said, calm as ever. Don had never seen him so nonplussed. 

'You can't- that's not how negotiations work.'

'Thirty,' Steve went on, setting the sheet of paper on Don's desk. 'Or you have to come up with a new fall guy.'

Poking through his wallet, he pulled out a variety of notes and coins.

'I have twenty-eight dollars and thirty-five cents.'

'Deal. And you're paying for the postage on my postcards.'

Steve held out his hand, expectant. With a grumble, Don dumped the cash into his hand and sat back. Steve looked far too smug as he stood and left, shoving the money into his back pocket without looking back. Although Don was certain he could disregarded Steve in the plan entirely, he had built the entire idea around him. He also found he didn't want to think of anyone else. Maybe he'd even buy the kid dinner to find out why he thought the government account was ethically reprehensible. 

*

One of the other secretaries was off to get married. Don didn't know who, and he couldn't say he particularly cared. All he knew was that there was going to be free booze and tiny sandwiches from a diner. He didn't want to go to the party, but business was wrapping up early on Friday afternoon and if it meant he didn't have to face the commute home for a few more hours, then so be it. 

Steve wasn't attending. He had the afternoon off for his final Spanish exam. When the other secretaries found out, they bemoaned his absence. Some of the girls (particularly those who went to college for an MRS Degree) tried to convince him to stay. It took the combined effort of Steve offering to chip an extra two dollars to Janet's gift, Peggy asking for some documents to be photocopied and Don sending him on an errand to find left-handed scissors for them to lay off.

The morning of the exam, Don gave Steve a tie that he'd brought from home. It was gold, with a thin pinstripe pattern. He told him it was a lucky tie. It wasn't, Don not particularly believing in luck, and he wasn't sure if Steve even believed him. But he beamed at the gift and put it on, despite it not quite matching his outfit. It was the first wide smile, reminiscent of the earliest weeks, that he'd seen since catching Steve in his office. Before he left, Don even went so far as to slap him on the shoulder and told him he was going to ace it. Steve gave a nervous chuckle but thanked Don. The last thing he did was look down at the photo frame, smile to himself, and carefully held the edge. It was sweet, and Don could picture him calling his friends that night to tell them all about it.

Right after four, the party started. Champagne was brought out, a few members of the art team squirrelled away to an office to smoke, and music began to play. For most of the staff, this was just an excuse to drink on company time, and Don was one of them. He checked his watch an hour later and wondered how Steve did. He even half-considered digging out his personnel records to find his home phone number to call but decided against it.

The music grew louder. People started dancing. Don wandered around and realised Roger had already left. Peggy had been pulled into a rousing rendition of some Beatles or Rolling Stones song, Don didn't know which. Steve likely would. He helped himself to another glass of whisky (at some stage he'd switched over, but he couldn't say when), and leant against a desk. A few women were crowding around Steve's desk, laughing and sighing about something. Maybe him. He wanted to tell them to mind the frame.

People were dancing. It was six. Time had melted into a booze-filled haze. Don took a breath and realised he was standing between his office and Steve's desk. Pete and Harry were talking to him about something. Don set his glass down somewhere (he'd already forgotten where by the time his hand released the glass) and looked over to where people were sitting and knocking against Steve's desk. The photo frame was too close to the edge of the desk. He ought to have said something, but time had stilled, in that strange, alcohol-fused way.

There was a wobble. Don's eyes fell to the frame, precariously balanced on the edge of Steve's desk. It teetered back and forth. Time seemed to slow. It was like the seconds before receiving bad news, before a car veered off the road, before the missile struck. Don could feel the air draw into his lungs, the blood pump through his veins, the condensation on the glass slide against his fingers. He tried to take a step forward, but his foot remained on the ground. There was another thump against the desk as someone smacked against it and the frame shook again, left and right. Another smack, and this time it moved too far.

The corner hit the edge of the desk. It bounced, rotating a half turn, before it hit the ground, it's opposing corner hitting first. Don was two steps too late. Pete and Harry were mid-sentence but he didn't hear them. It landed glass-side up, the panel in front of the smiling faces already sliced in half. A pretty blue heel stepped back and landed on the frame, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the image. With a sharp exhale, Don carefully placed his hand on the woman's shoulder and asked her to take a step forward, apologising as he bent down and picked up the frame. As glass rained down, she was full of apologies herself, most of which went ignored as Don excused himself and stepped towards his office 

Cradling the frame, he shut the door behind him with his foot. He'd picked up his drink on the way. With his tumbler still in hand, he paused and carefully twisted the lock shut with two fingers. The yellow light danced over the broken glass as he approached his desk, sipping the whisky as he went. The drink was set down first, then the frame, before he shrugged out of his jacket. Standing in his shirt sleeves, he rounded his desk and opened up the drawer. Pulling out an old handkerchief, his initials embroidered on them in burgundy, he carefully covered the frame, tucking the corners around it. With a quick flip, he managed to catch the worst of the glass without letting it spill over.

The contents were emptied into his trash can. The rest were picked out with the handkerchief, avoiding any cuts or scratches. Laying the frame back over the handkerchief on the desk, he ran his fingers over the latches on the back. They were stiff to undo, wedged closed with time. Pushing the last one away, he took hold of the stand and eased it off carefully. It was forced down upon something, and it sprung up easily.

It wasn't a photo but a small, printed book. Cocking his head to the side, pausing as there was a smack on his door and then raucous laughter, Don carefully pried the book free.

_In Memoriam_

It was an order of service. On the front, two names were emblazoned under the black and white photo. Don was sure he remembered Steve uttering them at some point. Under the names were two sets of dates. They were young; so very young. Air rushed from Don's lungs, and he found himself sinking back into his chair, his legs falling from underneath him of their own accord. Holding the booklet in his fingers, he looked over at the smiling picture on the front, of the boy with the poker straight hair and the girl with the wide eyes. So happy and full of life, and so very clearly gone.

He opened it. He didn't know if he was meant to or allowed to, but he found himself opening it up all the same. It was only six pages, including the covers. Prayers, Christian and Jewish alike, filled the pages. It looked like something a school had likely organised. Their school. Their high school. The names of their family filled it. William and Michael and Theodore and Joyce and Karen and Holly; he wondered if they were parents or brothers or sisters. Somebody named Jane had done a reading, and he wondered if she was the girl Steve had known who liked to fool people. Somebody named Max had said a prayer, and Don wondered if he was a classmate. He didn't know anybody else. Steve's name was nowhere to be found.

There was only one other image. It was on the back. Don recognised it as a cropped version from the one in Steve's wallet. The girl was leaning against the boy, her arms tossed around him. They were grinning. He knew from Steve's photo that her shirt was pink and his was yellow. He knew both were balanced upon Steve's lap, his arms wrapped around them both. In this version, the only sign of him was a pair of denim-clad knees. He'd been cut out, entirely removed. Steve Harrington didn't exist anywhere in this memorial to the lives of two people that he carried around everywhere with him. He wondered if it was deliberate. He wondered if anybody knew he had cared so much.

Opening up his drawer, Don put the booklet inside. He shut it. Locked it. Grabbed his glass. He tossed back the remains of whisky and spun his chair around to gaze over the nighttime view of New York.

*

He went to the library. There was a book Sally wanted to read, or so he told himself. On one of the upper levels was a collection of newspapers, all on microfilm. With a couple of books under his arm for Sally, as well as one for Bobby by an author he didn't recognise, he made his way upstairs. There was a soft clicking in the air as he made his way down the aisles, with the odd person bent over the desk as they ran through different slides of different newspapers. It took him ten minutes to find the appropriate list of newspapers, and another five to hunt down the date range. With a small collection of reels in hand, he retreated to one of the desks.

He found his own obituary first. Indiana and Illinois were neighbours. With a hand over his mouth, he read the three lines that appeared in the local town newspaper for the man he had once been. He was sure he'd read it once before, though he couldn't say if it had been while awake or in a dream. 

It took him longer to find the other obituaries. He ran through reel after reel, narrowing down dates and locations. He didn't know why he was so curious. He could have been home an hour ago, even two. But there he sat, moving back and forth through time. The county fairs, high school graduation, a late winter snowfall, an early fall chill. Back and forth until he found the obituaries, the two funerals, the school memorial the first week back. 

They died the summer before their final year. She was six months older than the boy and ten months later than the kid Don now called by his given name. The boy wanted to be a photographer, the girl loved ballet. He was quiet and kept to himself, while she was well-liked by her peers and a good student. There was never any mention of Steve's name; there never was. If someone was to go by the newspaper articles and memorial booklets, then nobody would ever know that Steve ever existed in their life.

The cause of death was listed as misadventure. Don knew that term well. His father's death was listed as misadventure. An old friend had once died by misadventure. He thought Roger's mother's death was listed as misadventure. There was no elaboration in any of the articles, nor any of the obituaries. Don sat there and flicked through the pages of the newspaper, transmitted via microfilm, and read through other dates. There were so many deaths in such a small town. 

The last mention of either name was in September that year, crammed between an article of a government and its laboratory on the outskirts of town and the annual pie-baking competition. Don shut off the lamp, packed the reel away, and went to check out the books for his kids.

He passed by the apartment building he knew to be Steve's after he'd hailed a cab. He'd had to find his employee details for the flight to DC. In his still mildly drunk brain, he'd remembered the street address. Don stood out the front for half a breath, wondering which window was Steve's, if his light was on, if he was at home or out. There was a homeware store a block away from his station. He stopped inside, glad to find it open, and purchased a new frame. By the time he got on the train, he'd pushed the purchase from his mind.

*

Don arrived early on Monday. Only skeleton staff were in the office, those still young or naive enough to still give a damn about their job. In some cases, both. Don nodded at each of them with a distant smile as he pretended to yawn. He went straight to his office and closed the heavy door behind him. The booklet was where he'd left it, safely locked away between signed agreements from clients and half-planned sales pitches. He took it out and carefully scanned it for any signs of damage. There hadn't been any on Friday night, but he still worried in a vague, unsubstantiated way that something may have happened over the weekend.

Nothing had. The boy and girl, so young and half Don's age plus change, still smiled back at him. They were full of life and full of hope and had departed the world so early.

He took out the frame he'd purchased. Unwrapping it, he looked it over. It was different to the original frame. Where the original flame had been a dark red wood with a simple, polished brass finish, Don had chosen a frame that had been painted black with a matte finish. The edges were capped in silver. It was hinged and opened up to fit a full sized picture on the left, with three smaller photos on the right. The clerk had said it would fit the wallet-sized photos Steve kept on him.

He was finalising some notes for the morning meetings (who the hell agreed to a 9AM meeting was utterly beyond him) when he heard someone curse outside his office. There was a hurried smack and something dropping. Getting out of his chair, Don crossed the office and opened the door as quietly as possible, peering out the two-inch gap.

'Shit- shit, where is- Marnie, have you seen it?' Steve was asking, speaking to someone Don couldn't see. There was an answer that disappointed Steve as he jerked open one of the drawers on his desk and began to tear through it. 'Jesus fucking Christ- '

'Mister Harrington,' Don said.

Steve didn't immediately stop what he was doing. Don wasn't too surprised. This was probably the first time he'd been in the office before him and made his presence known.

' _Steve_.'

At the sound of his name being said louder and firmer, Steve whipped around. Sucking in a breath, holding up a transcript that Don had done for Lucky Strike, he made a small, hapless noise. 

'My office.'

'Shit, I- fuck, sorry, Mister Draper, I didn't mean to swear. _Fuck_ \- '

'Now.'

Retreating from the door, opening it up wider to let Steve in, he went behind his desk. He could hear Steve padding inside, carefully and cautiously, no doubt wondering what reprimand awaited him. Don wasn't entirely sure when he'd become the equivalent of the schoolmarm, when such a title usually went to someone in Joan's position. He knew he had a high level of standard that he preferred, but they weren't insurmountable. Peggy had hit just about all of them.

'Shut the door.'

Steve did.

Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out the frame. Since that morning, he'd wrapped in simple brown paper and twine. The presentation was just as important as the gift itself, in Don's opinion. It was much like meeting with clients. While the final advertisement was the clincher, the sales pitch and song-and-dance beforehand was what carried the weight.

'I told you the frame was going to get damaged. You can't have something like that hanging off the edge of your desk.'

Steve's face turned white. A small noise came from the back of his throat as he looked over his shoulder at the door. Don could see the thousands of possibilities running through his head. Holding out the package, he waited for Steve to turn back around until he handed it over, rounding the desk as he did.

'Take it.'

Eyeballing the present, Steve took half a step forward. Taking it from him, he ripped at the paper, pushing the twine over the corners, until the new frame became visible. Tearing the paper away, he pulled it out and looked up at Don. There was a clasp that kept it safely shut. Flicking it, he let it fall open to the image inside. The colour of Steve's face didn't change, though he appeared confused.

'Mister Draper?'

'This one is a little more sturdy. Try not to let anything happen to it.'

Steve was staring at the frame and the image contained within. The thought process was clear on his face. The realisation that it had broken, that Don would have had to open it up and taken out the picture. That he'd found out the history behind the photograph, and all the other photographs Steve carried around with him. He swallowed hard, shaking a little as he nodded and slammed it shut. Letting the latch close, he held it close to his chest.

'Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I mean- I mean I'll take care of it. Thank you.'

Balling up the wrapping paper, he tucked it under his arm and cleared his throat. Although Steve's eyes were wet, he blinked back any that threatened to spill over. With a sharp inhale, he cleared his throat and stood up straighter.

'Raymond Brown from Maytag will be coming in shortly. Did you need anything in advance?' he asked, returning to his role as Don's secretary.

'No, Mister Harrington.'

'Will that be all?'

Don nodded. Steve gave another sharp breath, a hint of a wheeze nipping at it, before he thanked him again and retreated from the office. The door was shut behind him, barely making a sound as the latch slid into place.

When Don opened the door some twenty minutes later, he spotted the new frame. It was positioned next to his typewriter, beside the wall where it was better protected. It was opened up to reveal the images inside. Already, a collection of small photos had been inserted into the right. Steve and the small kid with the brightly coloured hat. The young teenage girl with wild red hair who was hanging upside down while Steve held her by the ankles. And, at the bottom, the original copy of the image at the back of the booklet. Steve and the two dearly departed friends, crowded on his lap while he hugged them in close.

He shook the client's hand, thanked him for coming in, and walked him to the boardroom.

*

The arrival in Washington was just as Don expected. It was hot, in that sticky, humid way that it always seemed to be. It was also swarming with mosquitoes, gnats, and politicians, all of which Don found mildly repulsive. Roger and Harry both muttered under their breath about the heat when they arrived at the hotel, with Steve bringing up the rear, a quiet, sceptical smile on his face. Roger was trying to engage Steve in a conversation about the local entertainment (which, to Don, seemed more like the local bars with female dancers), and to his benefit, Steve nodded and kept the faintly interested look on his face. There was a continuous twitch in the corner of his lips, though, as if he were in on some joke and Roger was the punchline. 

The four rooms were opposite one another on one of the middle floors. While they weren't the best rooms Don had ever stayed in, they weren't completely awful. Roger took the room opposite him, with Harry next door (which had Roger visibly wincing and Don smirking to himself). It left Steve scrambling with the last key, which slid into the lock in the door beside Don's. As Steve slipped inside, his eyes meeting with Don's for a breath, there was a strange twist in his chest. Shaking his head, Don chose to ignore it. The meeting was the following day, and he wanted to relax just a little before they collectively launched into a discussion for a meeting that he wasn't even going to be present for.

The view was nothing to write home about- not that Don typically did. He was only away for a couple of days, and he'd be back before anybody had time to miss him. Even Sally had begun to lose count of when he was home and when he wasn't. He'd still buy her a trinket, though nowadays they were beginning to get stuffed in the back of a cupboard more often than not. With pale blue curtains and a matching bedspread, this hotel room would soon merge into the countless others he had stayed at over the years.

Unpacking his suitcase, Don went about figuring out the location of the bathroom and the toilet. His jacket was hung up first, beside a safe and an ironing board. Beside the closet was another door. Although he knew very well what it was he opened it all the same, only to be greeted by another door. Arching an eyebrow, he rested his fingers on the handle and gave it a test push. It stopped short, clearly locked. He went to move to shut the door when the one in front of him was flung open.

Steve stood there, his jacket shrugged off and in his hand. He was holding it up, ready to hang it on the expected hook. The corners of his lips were pinched as he stared at Don, his door, and then his jacket.

'Closet's next one over,' Don said, pointing in the direction of his own. 'You don't need to worry. I'll be keeping my door locked.'

Steve didn't move for a beat. Finally, he lowered his arm. As he did, Don noticed the sweat patches accumulating underneath them, staining his crisp shirt. He, too, was sweating, the small of his back soaked through. Already, he could hear the air conditioning cranked and humming in the corner of Steve's room. Peering past Steve, he saw his suitcase opened up on the floor, next to the writing desk. On top of it was the photo frame, set up and displayed before he'd even unpacked anything else.

'I'll see you at dinner?'

With a nod, Steve muttered under his breath and shut the door. The lock was audible. 

*

There was a bar downstairs in the hotel. Although Don typically found the prices a bit of a wrought when it came to hotels, the presence of a hotel bar was often a deciding factor for Roger when it came to booking rooms. It could all be written as a business expense, after all, particularly at the end of the financial year. What it all meant for Don in the end was that he could drink and didn't need to pay for it. 

The bar at the hotel they were presently staying at was far more youthful than what he typically experienced, though. It was like the children and young relatives of local senators were all in town. As Don thought about it, that was likely the case. College graduates were interning over the summer where possible, housed in the cheapest room of a swank upscale hotel, while their folks footed the bill.

As much as Roger wanted the opportunity to meet some young woman, he knew he wouldn't find it in this type of bar. The women- girls, really, all the same age as Steve- were familiar with money, and his flash of wealth weren't going to sway them. Harry, in an attempt to emulate Roger, went with him. Don, not wanting to get stuck with a drunk Harry trying to flirt with anyone, declined to go with them. Instead, he found a bar down the street. It wasn't until he walked in that he realised he didn't know where Steve had disappeared to after dinner.

It didn't matter in the bar. There were women and drinks and music. He could smoke and forget the scam he and Steve were going to pull the next day. The hours passed and the booze flowed. When he left, inebriated and dizzy, the hot night air smacked him in the face. The walk back to the hotel was longer than he recalled, and he had drifted into a moderate buzz as he entered the moderately cooler foyer.

The hotel bar was near the elevators. Swaying a little, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves, he peered inside. Music was playing, something between swing and modern rock-and-roll. There was a throng of college age students, dancing in the wild and loose way that Don didn't understand. In the thick of it all was Steve. He was bouncing along, his collared shirt unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white undershirt. He'd lost his tie at some point. His hair was soft and had fallen into a series of gentle, slightly sweaty waves as he tossed it off his face. He was singing along to the loud song that Don recognised as something from The Beatles, while he spun around a girl. As he did, he happened to look over his shoulder and catch Don's eye.

The wafting smell of humidity, beer and stale urine came rushing back to him. His shirt, clinging to the small of his back, as a train echoed down a tunnel. Steve had been right in front of him, so close and yet impossible to reach. It hadn't been a fever dream, it hadn't been a hallucination. Don had known that, deep in his core, though he'd refused to admit it to himself.

His eyes ran down Steve's body. Sweat had caused his shirt to stick his body. Even from where he stood, Don could see the outline of his waist, the breadth of his shoulders and the dip low in his spine. Even his pants were stuck to his thighs, one cuff having been tucked up into his sock.

Don couldn't recall seeing Steve seem so carefree before. His face was lit up and he was laughing.

He was beautiful. It was distracting. That was the thought that kept coming back to him every time.

Steve stilled. Don watched him let go of the girl's hand. She laughed, tried to pull him back into the dance, and he gave her a shake of his head. As they spoke, Don turned and headed to the elevators. He was sober enough to think rationally, but still drunk enough to not care. As he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button to the floor, he didn't try to stop the doors from closing when he spotted Steve heading over. Steve wasn't rushing, anyway.

Walking down a hotel corridor at night always felt a little eerie. It was difficult to say what it was or why he felt that way. There was no true concept of night and day in the bowels of a hotel, but it forever left him feeling like he was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. He ran along a hand along the wall, feeling where the wallpaper hadn't been laid flat, where it was beginning to peel off and reveal the cracks in the paint underneath.

There was a fern outside his hotel room door. Don hadn't noticed it when they had arrived that morning. As he dug out his keys, he kicked the pot and watched the leaves rattle. It was difficult to tell if it was real or not, and helped contribute to the unbalanced feeling he was experiencing. The door opened when he slid the key home, and as he stepped through, he heard the elevator chime at the end of the hallway. He hesitated for all of two seconds, just enough time to see the chrome doors open up, before he stepped into his room.

He toed out of his shoes and socks and went to turn on the air conditioning. It began to hum, but the air it billowed out did little to reduce the humidity. Pulling his shirt off, he tossed it aside, along with his belt. It all landed on top of the writing desk. As he did, there was a knock at the door. It caught Don off-guard, particularly when he went to step towards the entrance and he heard a second series of knocks come from the side door. It was the same door that led to Steve's room. Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he took a side-step and unlocked it. It opened slowly. Steve was standing there. He'd taken off his collared shirt, too, as well as his socks and shoes. His bare feet curled into the carpet, a mildly determined expression on his flushed cheeks.

'I've never done this before,' Don murmured.

It wasn't a complete lie. The army didn't count. That had been an act of desperation. People did wild things out of need then. It had been dark and late at night, and Don could pretend he had been doing it to himself.

In the end, he had.

'I have.'

Don didn't have a chance to be surprised (though, perhaps, he truly wasn't by Steve's response). Steve kissed him, a hand grabbing the front of his shoulder and pulling him in. It was far more humid than the first time, without the cool subway chill in the air or the heady taste of booze chasing the kiss. Don couldn't recall if Steve had reciprocated at the train station, but he was leading it now. He guided Don away from the door and further into the hotel room, an insistent hand digging into his shoulder blade.

It was different to a woman. Don had been with more than he could rightfully recall. None of them had such a square jaw, though, nor that burn of day-old stubble on the cheeks and chin. Steve was almost as tall as Don in his bare feet, with just the slightest lift of his chin required to kiss him. His hands gripped at his naked arms and chest, sliding down with just a catch of his nails. When Steve stepped back to take a deep breath, his eyes raked over him, taking him in.

This was the part where Don usually scooped the woman up in his arms and led her to the bed. This was the part where he said something flirtatious or romantic or impressive. Right then, he was drawing a blank. There was a look of determination on Steve's face as he raised his eyes and met Don's again. Don wanted to ask what he was thinking, if he still wanted to do whatever he'd come in here for. There was something sweet and alcoholic lingering on his tongue, his cheeks were flushed, but his level of focus didn't match someone who was drunk.

Don didn't have a chance to wonder much linger. Steve was kissing him again, his hands running down and hooking around the belt loops of his pants. Hauling him in once more, Steve pressed up against him, his mouth hungry and insistent against Don's own. The questions that were forming in his mouth were going unuttered as Steve lapped at each unformed vowel and constant with his tongue. It was easier to move, to _do_ , than just stand there and let it all happen.

Something was tapping in his brain. The photo frame. The booklet within. The date printed. It was hard to focus.

Finding the hem of Steve's shirt, Don pulled it up. Tugging it overhead, he revealed long lines of tanned, olive skin. There was an old scar across his midsection, which looked faintly like a bite wound. Another ran the length of his bicep, silvery white in the yellow light of the bedside lamp. He wanted to look and investigate further, but Steve had other ideas. He snatched the shirt out of Don's hand, tossed it away, and pushed him backwards onto the bed.

Don fell back willingly. It was almost fun. Strange and completely unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, the strength of the push against him. Steve crawled on top of him, his mouth on Don's neck, his collar bones, his chest, before going back up. It wasn't until that Steve reached down and slid his hand over the front of Don's pants that he realised just how hard he was.

'Steve- '

'Don't talk.'

'What?'

Steve kissed him again. That was fine by Don. Kissing was fine, it was familiar, even if the gender of the person he was kissing wasn't. Even the pressure of Steve's hand, groping him through his clothes, was familiar enough. He could sigh into the kiss and roll upwards into it. Steve had said he'd done this before, and his level of confidence and experience said that was true. Sure, it was all a little unfamiliar, but if Steve's one rule was no talking, then he could abide by that. He couldn't ask about what he was forgetting if he couldn't speak.

Without asking for permission, Don raised his hands as settled them on the waist of Steve's own pants. His fingers danced over the swell at the front, the heat that was radiating through them. That, too, was new. Unlike women, though, where it could be a little harder to tell sometimes if they were truly interested, this was clear. Steve was hard and Don could feel the tremble run through him as he tentatively wrapped his hand around him. He could feel a steady pulse through his cock, as his hips canted forward. Lifting up a little, he could strain against the length of Steve's body.

He was hard. He was desperate. He was needy. Both of them were, in different ways.

Steve's mouth had found a spot on Don's neck. Sucking at it, he began to tug at his fly. Shoving it down, Don fell back against the bed. As he did, his pants were tugged down, Steve forcing them off, along with his boxers. It was strange how certain aspects, like removing clothes, could be so familiar and yet so strange. Laying naked underneath Steve, while his cock was gripped in a slightly callused hand, was bewildering and somehow not the strangest predicament he'd ever found himself in.

With Don's pants off, Steve worked on his own. Still situated on Don's lap, he huffed, pulling them off and tossing them aside. The air conditioning was rattling in the background, working overtime to keep the heat and humidity in the room down. It wasn't doing a very good job. A thin sheen of sweat covered them both, becoming more apparent as their bodies, naked and slick with sweat, pressed against one another. The touch of naked skin was the same, though there was something hot, like a brand against his thigh. A flat chest, small hips, broad shoulders.

That was definitely a little strange. He could feel Steve's cock sliding against his hip, the drag of foreskin across his belly. It was almost enough to pull him out of what was happening, until Steve kissed him again. It was as desperate and as needy as before and Don couldn't help but reciprocate as he was pushed against the bed. Steve's knees dug into his hips, his short, bitten nails curling into whatever they could find: Don's shoulders, his biceps, the pillow, the mattress. 

'Do you want me to- I can- ' Don stumbled, reaching between them and uncertainly taking hold of Steve's cock. 

'I told you not to talk.'

It was rare that someone demanded anything of him in bed other than _more_. Maybe a request for him to put his hand somewhere, an aroused plea for more, but nothing like this. Even as Steve muttered for him to stop talking, though, he began to rock into Don's hand, his face pressed to the crook of his neck. 

Despite Steve's insistence that he quit talking, though, Don couldn't help it. It was his job, it was what he did. His hand ran over Steve's erection, a little surprised with how easy it was to fall into this. It had been some fifteen-odd years since he'd done it all those years before, but this rhythm was easy to recreate.

'Is this okay?'

Steve nodded. 

'What do you need?'

Steve lifted his head. He took a shivering breath, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and sat back on his haunches. Don continued to move his hand, watching as Steve breathed in shakily and shivered all over.

'I need you to shut up.'

Don could almost hear the unsaid statement: Steve needed to forget.

The date on the booklet pushed against his memory again, and he forced it back.

Cupping the back of his head, he guided Steve's mouth to his own. Kissing him, he tried to bite back his own moan as Steve began to stroke him again. The sound of the air conditioner covered any other sounds; their heavy breathing, their bodies arching up to meet each other.

'Wait here,' Steve uttered breathlessly as he suddenly pulled away and clambered off.

'What- '

'Just wait.'

Steve hopped off. Bewildered, Don lay there and watched as Steve padded away over the carpet, his hands running through his hair. It was longer than Don had expected, now that it wasn't styled with his usual wax treatments. He was naked, too, and Don finally saw the freckles that covered his body, across his broad shoulders and narrow hips. Pushing up onto his elbows, he lay there, baffled as Steve disappeared into the bathroom.

Sitting up straight, he tried to figure out what had happened. The bathroom door was shut, and he couldn't hear what Steve was doing over the sound of the air conditioner. He was alone with his thoughts. Never a good place to be. His eyes flickered to the opened side door. He could creep in, peer at the photo frame, try to confirm what he didn't want to admit.

As he struggled to figure out what was happening, the bathroom door opened again. As Steve headed over, he flicked the light switch. The room went dark, except for the lamp that was left on beside the bed.

'What- ' Don repeated.

'Lay back.'

Steve was already crawling back on top of him. He tossed a leg over Don's hips, an insistent hand on his shoulder again. In his other was a small bottle. Don recognised it as a complementary bottle of lotion that all hotels seemed to have. Some strange, unrecognisable brand that sat alongside the shampoos and conditioners and mini toothbrushes. Steve uncapped the lid with his thumb and squeezed a liberal amount onto Don's cock. As he tossed it aside, allowing it to get lost in the bed linens, he began to stroke Don again. It was better this time; the lotion was cold, but Steve's hand was slick and slightly damp.

This was fine. Strange, but fine. Steve's mouth was still rougher than the women he'd been with. He was heavier, broader, and occasionally his cock would rub against his belly. Steve was just male enough to keep throwing him, but just soft and needy and desperate enough that Don couldn't push him away. He didn't want to, either. There was a hunger beneath all Steve was doing, a coyness that he could appreciate. 

The bed shifted as Steve canted his hips. Lifting up on his knees, he hummed to himself as he positioned himself how he wanted. Don could only watch, his hands coming to rest on Steve's hips to help him. The soft, yellow light of the lamp caught the sweat on Steve's brow and chest, his brows narrowed in concentration and wide eyes shut tight.

It took Don a few seconds to realise what was happening. There was a faint twitch in Steve's face as he sank down, guiding Don's cock inside of him. Don's hands went flying off his hips, a wash of surprise hitting him as he tried to ask what the fuck Steve was doing, _how_ he was doing it, where the hell had he learnt this. He was slick inside, and hot. Tighter than a woman, but with that warm, damp heat that women had. But tight. So goddamn tight. 

The words stuck in his throat, though. The heat that surrounded the head of Don's cock was incredible. With his head back and mouth open, Steve's fingers dug into his chest. Although Steve had demanded he remain quiet, Don couldn't help but cry out as he thrust up. Sinking deeper into Steve, he was rewarded with a deep moan. Curling over, Steve kissed him, his tongue lavishing Don's mouth as they fell into an uneasy rhythm. His hands kept Don pressed into the bed, though he didn't complain when Don grabbed the back of his hair, holding him in place as they worked together.

No, they weren't working together. Steve was doing the work. His knees squeezed into the side of Don's hips, his nails biting at his skin. He rose and fell, finding a rhythm on his own, without any added assistance. He tugged at Don's hair, his other hand cupping his cheek as he groaned against his mouth. Even the sound of Don's own moans were lost as the mattress creaked and the sound of Steve's loud groans filled the space in the air left behind. 

He knew they shouldn't be doing this, but Don had never been one to listen to his conscience. He wasn't trying to think about the fact who he was doing this with, either. Steve didn't seem to care. He was grabbed at Don, moaning against his mouth as one hand stroked his cock, the other snatching at whatever he could. He didn't utter Don's name. He didn't utter anything, not even a plea for more.

He eventually found Don's hand, though. His fingers clasped around it, holding on tight as he gave a small, plaintive cry. The deep, sucking heat Don found himself in was incredible, and as he gripped at Steve's hand, he continued to hold onto his hips with the other. Rocking up, he held him in position as he moved faster, finally developing a steady beat that Steve met each time. 

Steve came first. With his eyes tightly shut, he spilled over on Don's belly. The moan ripped through him, short and loud. It was anguished and desperate, a hand lifting up to cover his face as he trembled. With his free hand, Don dropped it to the small of Steve's back, pulling him down on top as he continued to hold him in place with his hip. Panting hard, he continued to thrust, maintaining his rhythm until he, too, came, deep inside. 

Time seemed to still. There was just the whirr of the air conditioning, that was no better than a fan in a distant room. Sweat dripped from both of them. Patches of pink and red covered Steve's body, his cheeks flushed bright. The colour ran down his neck and to his chest, which he swiped a hand over to rid of sweat. With a heaving sigh, he teetered to the side and dropped onto the mattress beside Don. There was a gap between them, wide enough that Don thought he could lay a two-by-four. It was fine. There was an emotional wall between them; besides, the heat wasn't suitable for any kind of romantic cuddling.

Minutes passed. There was a knocking from the air conditioning. There was a pattern to it, like something that was wedged into a vent somewhere, which would be battered about every certain number of cycles.

'My friend Dustin took a photo of us three, the night they died,' Steve suddenly said. 

It came from nowhere. Don turned his head, still catching his breath, while he mentally tried to figure out where he'd put his cigarettes.

'I don't know where he got the camera from. I mean, I know where it came from, but...' 

Steve took a moment. Finding his cigarettes on the bedside table, Don lit one, passed it over, and then lit another himself. As he took a drag of his cigarette, he listened to Steve smoke and waited for him to carry on.

'I think I knew what was going to happen that night. Deep down... I think I knew.'

'You can't have known that.'

'No. I knew.'

There was a firmness in Steve's voice. As much as Don wanted to argue, he bit his tongue. He watched as the cherry end of Steve's cigarette lit up and smoke billowed from his mouth. Steve was avoiding his gaze, and even went so far as to turn his head so Don couldn't watch him.

'You can have a shower first, if you want,' Steve remarked.

Arching an eyebrow, Don looked at the bed between them. Steve didn't look like he wanted to be held, but he'd been witness to more unusual things. His cigarette was only partly finished, but he set it in the ashtray and got up. He was sticky and drenched with sweat, anyway. A shower wouldn't go astray.

Don was right. The cold water was a God send. Standing under the spray, his face turned upwards, he sighed and lathered up with soap. Sometimes he'd offer to shower with the woman he'd just been with, but Steve had such a high wall around him that he didn't know how to get around it. Besides, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to. It was the date.

By the time he left the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, it was clear Steve had made up his mind. The bed was empty, the floor cleared of Steve's clothes. The cigarette Don had left in the ashtray was gone. The door to Steve's room was closed, and he had no doubt in his mind that if he opened it, Steve's door would be shut and locked. 

*

Don woke late. He didn't mean to. With an arm tossed over his face, the exhaustion of travel, booze, and unexpected sex kept him in bed. He hadn't set his alarm, either, which compounded the issue. He'd forgotten to the day before, and the digits had clicked over past six, seven, eight and nine. There was a smacking on the door, and he woke with a start, confused. 

The alarm clock next to him said it was almost ten. The meeting was in twenty minutes. Groaning, he pushed a hand through his hair and took a moment to yawn and stretch. There was another insistent knock and he pushed himself up and out of bed. He had to move fast if he planned to get out of the meeting.

Opening the door, he was greeted by Roger. He was already dressed, and, from the looks of it, sweltering in the Washington humidity. Don, too, could already feel sweat accumulating under his armpits. He was only in his shorts, and they felt tacky all over.

'Geez, the kid said you were sick.'

'Huh?'

He'd barely woken up. Language was beyond him. Rubbing his eye, he shook his head and tried again, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

'What?'

'Kid said you were sick.'

 _Shit_.

Don was still too tired to come up with a rational explanation, but he still knew what Roger had said. Steve had turned the excuse on him. Instead of Don being the one dragging Steve to a hospital, he was now the one about to questioned.

'Food poisoning,' he mumbled, hoping that would keep Roger out of his room. 

'Yeah. Kid said something like that. He's gone to find you a doctor.'

'Steve. His name is Steve.'

That caused Roger to twitch. He did a double take, looked Don over again, and shook his head. There was no woman in his room. The walls and carpet was infused with masculinity. With a wave of his hand, he carried on while Don stood there, resting against the door like he was about collapse at any moment. He went over the framework of the meeting, attempted to ask Don his opinion on a subject, before Don shook his head, excused himself, and shut the door.

It wasn't until late afternoon that he saw Steve. He heard him unlock his hotel door and step inside. Knocking on the door that joined the rooms, he didn't let up until Steve answered. There was a shopping bag on the bed behind him. He was dressed casually, a soft t-shirt and jeans that Don didn't recognise him in. Even his hair looked different.

'Do you think you're clever?'

Raising an eyebrow slowly, Steve looked him over. 

'I did what you wanted. I bought you an out for today's meeting. Isn't that what you wanted?'

It was. Don had enjoyed his day. He had feigned sick until the meeting time, when he'd left the room and gone swimming in the pool. He'd soaked up the sun until lunch time, when he'd ordered room service and pretended to be sick again. Roger had avoided him for most of the afternoon, too. He hated being around anyone who had a mild sniffle, let along full blown gastric issues.

'You were the one who was meant to be sick. You used me.'

'They were expecting you. Not me. You got drunk and hungover, so I told Mister Sterling that you felt ill and went to fetch you a doctor. They went to the meeting, and I went shopping.'

Don eyeballed the department store bags that were sitting atop Steve's suitcase. He recognised a few records that were sticking out of the top of one. Sally was interested in the same band.

'You went _shopping_?'

'You're getting paid whether you attended the meeting or not. I'm getting paid as your assistant. I assisted you in ensuring you didn't go to the meeting. Job's done.'

Shaking his head, Don raised a finger at Steve. Despite what had happened the night before, his anger had been flared. He took half a step to enter Steve's room, but Steve's hand lashed out. As quick as ever, his reflexes built on physical activity and youth, Steve's arm blocked his entrance. It barricaded the door, his weight shifting forward. There was an edginess in Steve's dark gaze, his upper lip curling into a sneer.

'Look, I already know what it's like to be the only queer in town. The guy who sleeps with both women and men. I'm betting you don't. So unless you want to find out, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.'

'You're attempting to _blackmail_ me?'

'No,' Steve said evenly. 'You didn't want to go to that meeting. I don't know why, I don't _care_ why. But I didn't either. So we both got what we wanted. A night of forgetting why we didn't want to be in that room, and a day of playing truant.'

Don realised he'd never actually raised that particular question with Steve. There had been suggestions (more than suggestions) from Steve, threads he could follow but never had. Steve had tried. He'd nudged and poked, and Don had batted him away again and again. Now there was the potential for an opening, and that window was rapidly closing.

'Look, both our names were on the guest list,' Don started, trying instead of an apologetic tone. 'If they ask, we should corroborate. Make sure our stories- '

Steve shook his head, just once. His arm remained in place, blocking Don from entering.

'No,' he said firmly. 'Your's was. Not mine.'

'But- '

'Steve _Holloway_ was on the list. Not Steve Harrington. I wrote the attendance list. You didn't check it. Nobody did. I need to shower and change. I suggest you do the same, too.'

Something dropped in Don's gut. He actually felt like he was about to be as ill as Steve had made him out to be to Roger.

'Steve- '

'If you want to get your rocks off before the flight leaves, I suggest you call someone else. I need to pack.'

Steve sucked on his lower lip. Then, shrugging, he gave a cheeky smile and went to shut his door.

'We had a deal. You reneged.'

'Whoops. Must have confused that one. Like you said, I guess I don't know how negotiations work. I'll see you at dinner, Mister Draper.'

He swung the door closed. Don stared at it, mildly bewildered. His hand hovered at the door, raised in a fist and ready to knock again. As he stood there, though, rooted to the carpet, he found he couldn't bring himself to demand Steve's attention again. Lowering his arm, he took a step back, watching as Steve's shadow appeared from under the door as he walked inside his locked hotel room. Finally, Don took hold of his own door and swung it shut.

*

Don didn't utter a word to Steve unless absolutely necessary on the trip home. Steve, however, was perfectly cordial, perhaps irritatingly so. He smiled at Don, asked him if he was feeling better in front of Roger and Harry over dinner, and explained to the pair that it was likely a good thing they had eaten separately, as the doctor had said it was likely the oysters Don had eaten the night before. The lie came so quickly and so easily to Steve that Don almost had to do a double take.

The flight back to New York was uncomfortable. He sat next to Steve, who was quiet and read his book without acknowledging Don. It was by someone called Kurt Vonnegut. If he had anything to say about the night before, he wasn't showing any inclination of doing so. Although at first Don wasn't sure how to read that (most women who acted that way were closer to Don's age than Steve's), he began to settle a little midway through the flight. With a cigarette between his fingers, he watched from the corner of his eye as Steve flicked a page in the book. Finally, he clicked his tongue and tilted his head towards Steve, his eyes staying on the window.

'The other night was fun.'

At first, he thought Steve was ignoring him. He turned his head, just enough to begin reading the next page of his book. There was barely a flicker of his eyes and a twitch of his lip before waved his fingers slightly. 

'It was.'

'I lied,' Don said, his voice dropping. 'I'd done something similar, once before. Years ago, when I was in the army.'

That got Steve raising his eyes. Arching a brow, he looked Don over. He lowered the book barely an inch and tilted his chin up. He even went so far as to partly close the book, his thumb in between the pages. 

'Really? With who?'

That caused Don to pause. It was unlikely Steve would know, incredibly unlikely. It was just two words. Two simple words. A question and an answer. Steve would do nothing with it, Don knew that. He was just a kid, making conversation after they'd both done something they shouldn't have. But the words got caught in his throat, and the longer Steve looked at him, sidelong and vaguely intrigued, the more Don wondered if he should answer.

'Dick Whitman.'

'Huh. Cool.'

Satisfied that Don had answered, Steve returned to his book. The question and subsequent answer had been Steve more validating his claim that anything. He flicked a page, leant back, and stole the cigarette for Don's fingers. Taking a drag, he changed it over to the hand furthest from Don and resumed ignoring him. It was difficult to not take offence.

*

Things settled back down at the office. The upcoming presentation of the government account was in three weeks. Don was vaguely aware that Steve would no longer be at the office then, having safely returned upstate or downstate or wherever he was attending college. He was beginning to stay back, even after Don had left, to finish up some project. He started to forget Don's morning coffee.

(Upstate. Don knew it was upstate. He just told himself he didn't. He pretended he didn't know he was heading back to Rochester.)

(Steve had done well on his exam. He could have gotten into New York University but had decided to pass it up.)

(He pretended, too, that he didn't know Steve's birthday, September twenty-first, was the same day the account was to be presented.)

Diana's Foods came in for the final summary before the last of their advertising campaign for the fall quarter was to be released. Sales were up, their products were reaching out to consumers beyond the Spanish and Latin market, with a definite surge in the Asian sector. Don didn't understand, but the clients were happy and they appeared to be a candidate for a repeat client. 

Memos began to appear on his desk, scribbled notes about a party for Steve. He eyed them, took the date into account, and went back to the next project he was working on. At one point, a note landed on his desk for him to write up a letter of recommendation for Steve. He started, made a few dot points, then passed it on to Joan to finish.

'You need to write this,' she said, holding it up between two fingers. She seemed to find it distasteful.

'I started. I made some notes. Pass it to me when it's done and I'll sign it. I need to finish the government project.'

Joan's nose screwed up slightly. She arched a perfectly plucked brow, pursed her lips in tight, and set the sheet down on her desk.

'You're coming to the party, I suppose?'

'Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world.' 

He'd already forgotten the date. 

Shaking her head, Joan took the paperwork and set down beside her typewriter. Although she look displeased about it, she wasn't about to argue with him. Don took half a step towards the door, before he stopped and pivoted on the ball of his foot.

'Joan?'

'Yes?'

The sharp tone was as close as Joan ever got to telling someone to disappear. Now that he heard it, Don realised how similar it was to Steve's own voice. It almost made him smile, to recall the familial connection, before his mind case back to the humid hotel room and the feeling of Steve's knees on either side of his hips. He'd used that same tone of voice when he suggested Don have a shower.

'Is Steve happy here? Has he enjoyed his time?'

Her expression grew stiff. It was another Steve look. Or, maybe, Steve was pulling a Joan look.

'That would be a question for him,' she said coolly. But, she added after a pause, 'I think he's mostly happy to get out of Hawkins. We were all relieved when he left.'

Don didn't ask her to elaborate. He knew why. 

It wasn't until he landed back behind his desk that it occurred to him that Joan likely did, too.

*

Don walked into the office at half past ten on Monday. September had brought with it a wave of humidity and his shirt was soaked through. His sleeves were already unbuttoned and rolled up his forearms, his hair fighting against the Brylcreem that he had dabbed it on it that morning. There was a slight curl in the centre of his brow that made him think of Steve as he caught his reflection in a pane of glass. Shaking his head, watching it bounce, he sighed but decided to leave it until he'd sat behind his desk. Maybe it would make Steve laugh.

The thought was pushed away as he entered the office. The phones were ringing, there was a flurry of chatter and a manilla envelope was pushed into hand by Pete with an explanation that he only caught half of and nodded distractedly as he barely listened. Whatever made him feel important, he supposed; at least it was Pete and not, say, Harry. Roger was chatting to one of the secretaries, Peggy had her hip against a desk as she lectured Kurt or Smitty or one of them, while Joan rolled her eyes and tried to bite her impatience. Don studied the office floor as he walked up to Steve's desk, his head turned over his shoulder as he began to talk.

'Hey, how do you like- '

He stopped as a pair of pale blue eyes, ringed with eyeliner and mascara looked up at him. Don stopped. Looking down, he eyed the corner of the desk next to the typewriter, then on the opposite side. It was bare. Red varnished, manicured hands were poised over the typewriter and a neat dress was tucked under the girl that sat in the chair. Don stopped. Pivoting, he turned just as Joan walked up to him. Pointing a finger at the new girl, his briefcase swinging from his hand, he shrugged a shoulder.

'Where's Steve?'

'Don, I'd like to introduce to Olivia. Olivia, this is Mister Draper.'

'Hello, Mister- '

'Where's Steve?' Don repeated, ignoring his newest secretary.

The corner of Joan's smile twitched. The flash of annoyance was brief and almost imperceptible. He only knew it was there as it would cross her face when he'd missed something important. A meeting, a telephone conversation, or, as it slowly occurred to him, a farewell party.

Shit.

'He's back at college today. His train left Saturday morning. Olivia will be taking his place.' 

To his left, he could feel a pair of blue eyes boring into him. With a nod, he gave Olivia thin, short smile and turned. He could hear Joan going over his morning schedule with Olivia, but he didn't listen to it. Stepping into his office, he shut the door heavily behind him. He leant against it and shut his eyes. The party had been mentioned to him. He knew it had; he could recall Steve bringing it up a couple of times. Even Peggy had said something. Joan. Pete. His head smacked against the door as he pressed his hand to his face and walked over to his desk.

The briefcase fell to the ground. A glass of whisky was poured. Pulling out his chair, he fell in it and began to go through the items on his desk. Forms to sign, artwork and scripts. The last of Steve's typed documents. Don flicked through them all, pulling most of them into a pile that was mentally labelled _later_. 

There, at the bottom, was a folder with loopy writing he had just begun to recognise. Opening it up, he found a sheet of paper atop a pile of documents.

_Thanks,_  
_S.H._

Setting the sheet aside, he picked up the pile of documents. They were photocopies, and from the looks of it, it was all from various newspapers. Sitting back, taking a sip of whisky, he read the first one. It was from the newspaper he'd found at the library, about the death of his two friends. Misadventure. Scanning the page, he set it down and flicked to the next one. 

_Hawkins High Girl Missing_

The next was about a teenage girl, Barbara Holland, who had gone missing. Furrowing his brow, Don scanned the page. There was a brief, one-line mention, where the Wheeler's girl's name was mentioned as a friend. There was a also a remark about a Byers boy, who had also gone missing, and Don was sure he'd seen his name before.

_Hawkins Lab To Blame For Girl's Death_

Another article, this one with a photo of the girl Don took to be the Holland girl. There was a reference to some place known as the Hawkins Lab, which listed a street name, that was allegedly releasing chemical gasses. A few lines in revealed it to be the Department of Energy. Don's eyes raised from the photocopied article to the folder on his desk that bore the same name. Setting the glass of whisky down, he moved the photocopied newspaper articles to his desk and began to read slower. 

The following articles were much the same. Experiments on chemical warfare, dangerous gas leaks, queries about damaged crops and other potential poisonings. There was one article about spooks and about the disappearance of the Byers boy, who Don began to recall as being the younger brother of Steve's friend. Most of this were things he knew, and nothing he was surprised by. Hell, Lucky Strike could be said to do much the same.

_MKUltra Exposed_  
_Alleged Experiments, Abuse_  
_Terry Ives Suing_  
_Dr Martin Brenner Named in Lawsuit_

The next four had been put on one page. A blur in the corner made it seem like it had been done in a hurry. Confused and swearing under his breath, Don considered throwing it in the trash. They looked like articles from the funny papers. But, compelled, he began to read them slowly. Brenner's name was familiar, and he was sure he'd read it in one of the documents that had been waved under his face. The Ives woman's name meant nothing to him, and so many projects, particularly government projects, had codenames. But his eyes kept falling back to the other articles, and as he read about the alleged experiments, his eyes fell back to the page about the girl dying.

_Two Teens Dead in Car Accident_

Death by misadventure was the cause. The name of the street, Don noted, was the same as the one that house Hawkins Lab.

_Coroner Rules Misadventure_  
_Wheelers Suing, Byers Silent_  
_Jim Hopper Steps Down_  
_'Not An Accident' – Murray Bauman_

Don placed the articles back on the table. Rubbing his forehead, he grabbed the glass and took a drink. Ink covered his hands as he set the last page aside. With a hand over his mouth, he swallowed hard and studied his desk. It wasn't just Steve's pages, but the four-million dollar contract, the artwork for Diana's, the Shaeffer pen. 

There was one final page, folded in half. Picking it up, a photo fell out. It was an original. 

They were young. As young as the photo that had once sat on Steve's desk. It was dated the night of the accident. The girl was looking away. There was blood on her face, her hair matted to the side. It looked like she was speaking to someone off-camera, the butt of a rifle just visible. She seemed to be loading it. 

On the other side was the boy, pale and thin, nursing his hand. It was wrapped in gauze, and it was hard to tell if his fingers were bandaged down, or if they'd been lost completely. A grimace marred his face, and there was a blur like he was in midaction. Steve had mentioned he'd once been a photographer; perhaps it was his camera that was being manhandled.

Steve was in the centre, looking straight down the lens. 

Don had once seen a photo once of a World War One soldier. He was shellshocked, with an eerie, unsettling look in his eyes as he sat in the trenches during gunfire. The soldier had a peculiar smile on his face that still haunted him, even decades after the photo had been taken. Steve had the same, unsettling look on his face. Don was sure he wasn't smiling but shouting, a hand out stretched as he held a bloodied, weaponised bat over his shoulder. In the back of his mind, he could hear him yelling at whoever had grabbed the camera. 

Don set the photo down. After a moment, he flipped it over, unable to bring himself to look at it. Picking up his cigarettes, he shook one out, lit it, and rocked back in his chair. 

His eyes fell to the folder on his desk. He could picture the contract in it. He could picture Steve staring at him with those glassy, empty eyes. 

_Thanks,_  
_S.H._

The end of his cigarette grew cherry red.

With an exhale, he grabbed the photo. Taking his lighter, he flicked it open. Without flipping it over, he held it up and let it burn.


End file.
